THE  PoET 
M  FooL 

and  the 

MRIES 


MAPiSON 
CAWEIN 


THE  POET,  THE  FOOL 

AND 

THE  FAEEIES 


BOOKS    BY    MR.   CAWEIN 

COMPLETE  POEMS,  in  five  volumes. 
Illustrated  by  Eric  Pape.       $15.00  net 

THE  GIANT  AND  THE  STAR  (Child 
Rhymes)  §i.oonet 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &   COMPANY 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


Miss  JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE  says  in  the  New  York  Times : 

"  Following  his  own  star,  Mr.  Cawein  has  created  a  type  of  nature  poetry 
wholly  distinct  in  that,  to  an  observation  so  minute  and  delicate  that  it 
might  serve  as  the  equipment  of  a  naturalist,  he  has  united  a  fancy  so  rich 
and  versatile  that  one  finds  the  fact  transforming  under  his  eyes  to  a  strange 
beauty  and  yet  losing  none  of  its  reality.  Indeed  it  is  the  sense  of  reality  in 
Mr.  Cawein's  work,  the  minuteness  with  which  he  records  what  might  escape 
a  less  devoted  observer,  that  constitutes  the  supreme  charm  of  his  work. 
That  Wordsworth  should  have  celebrated  the  '  Small  Celandine '  was  in  its 
day  an  epoch  in  nature  observation,  but  one  might  explore  the  Kentucky 
woods  and1  fields  with  a  volume  of  Cawein's  poems  as  a  handbook  and 
identify  many  as  lowly  and  exquisite  a  flower  first  recognized  in  song. 

"  With  something  of  Thoreau's  mood  Mr.  Cawein  finds  in  Kentucky  mead 
and  coppice  the  outer  world  in  microcosm  and  does  not  wander  far  afield  in 
quest  of  other  expressions  of  a  beauty  he  has  not  yet  exhausted.  Year  by 
year  the  passing  pageant,  bringing  some  new  wonder,  finds  him  still  intent, 
with  no  day  barren  of  its  revelation  or  devoid  of  its  joy. 

"  This  last  is  perhaps  the  quality  which  enforces  itself  most  strongly  upon 
Mr.  Cawein's  readers,  that  no  sense  of  disillusion  ever  creeps  into  his  work 
when  nature  is  his  theme,  though  not  absent  from  it  now  and  then  when  man 
obtrudes  in  the  picture. 

"  Mr.  Cawein  is  primarily  a  painter,  a  painter  like  Manet,  who  delighted 
to  depict  in  different  atmospheres  the  same  subject,  revealing  the  beauty  of 
its  transformations.  Always  the  veritable  color  and  aroma,  the  palpable 
sense  of  the  open  is  transferred  to  his  pages,  so  that  one  feels  the  direct  im 
pulse  which  inspired  them."  .  .  . 


THE  POET,  THE  FOOL 

AND 

THE  FAERIES 


BY 
MADISON  CAWEIN 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1912 
BY  MADISON  CAWEIN 


THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE.   U.S.A. 


TO 

ALICE  MONEOE  PAPE 

GIFTED  AND  BEAUTIFUL 

SHE  DIED  YOUNG 
i 

The  leaves  are  fading  ;  and  on  sea  and  shore 

An  autumn  sadness  falls  :  the  world  grows  wan  ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  wind  sweeps  wearily  on, 

Sighing  for  Summer  days  that  are  no  more. 

We  three,  who  once  were  four,  —  ah,  happy  four  !  — 

Our  narrow  circle  round  the  hearth  have  drawn, 

A  ring,  from  which  the  queenliest  gem  is  gone, 

Whose  empty  setting  nothing  will  restore. 

Oh,  unbelievable  !  that  never  again 

Shall  that  bright  presence  fill  the  house  with  light ! 

Like  a  fair  taper,  burning  silver  clear : 

Whose  fire  is  ashes  now,  —  but  not  in  vain, 

Since  here  it  shone  for  us,  and  through  the  night 

Would  guide  us,  shining,  to  some  higher  sphere. 

Manchester-by-the-Sea,  Mass. 
September,  1911 


256353 


Acknowledgment  for  permission  to  reprint 
certain  of  the  shorter  poems  included  in  this 
volume  is  herewith  made  to  The  Century  Co., 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Harper  and  Brothers, 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  Co.,  The  Forum,  The 
Delineator,  The  Crowell  Publishing  Co.,  Ess, 
Ess  Publishing  Co.,  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.,  The 
Outlook,  Collier's  Weekly,  Ainslee's  Magazine, 
The  Bookman,  and  the  John  Adams  Thayer 
Corporation. 


CONTENTS 

THE  COMMON  EARTH 

PAGE 

THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES   ...  3 

THE  DRYADS 57 

THE  COMMON  EARTH 78 

A  FAERY  BURIAL 85 

Two  FAERIES  AND  A  FLOWER 90 

WOOD  AND  WATERS 95 

I    ON  A  HEADLAND 95 

II    THE  FOREST 95 

III  THE  MILL-STREAM 96 

IV  THE  OLD  SAW-MILL 97 

V    SWAMP-LED 97 

VI    THE  SWAMP 98 

VII    THE  PLACE  OF  POOLS     98 

VIII     VESPERTINE 99 

IX    FLOWER  PAGEANT 100 

X    THE  WIND  FROM  THE  SEA     100 

XI    SEA  LURE 101 

XII    OCEAN  MISTS 102 

XIII    A  FOREST  PLACE 102 

A  PATH  TO  THE  WOODS  .                               .   .  104 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  DREAMS  OP  SUMMER 107 

HARVESTING 110 

SABBATH 112 

DESERTED 114 

THE  WOOD  STREAM 115 

WORM  AND  FLY 117 

THE  OLD  BAYOU 119 

BUTTERFLIES 121 

DRAGONFLIES 123 

A  WlLDFLOWER        125 

THE  GHOST  FLOWER 127 

AUTUMN  STORM      129 

"I  HEAR  THE  WOODLANDS  CALLING"      ....  130 

DOLOROUS  NIGHT 132 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  HEART 134 

OLDTOWN 136 

THE  OLD  PLACE 138 

THE  PATH  TO  YESTERDAY 140 

AGE 142 

DROUTH 144 

BESIDE  THE  ROAD 145 

THE  HAIL  STORM 146 

CHAOS  AND  ORDER 147 

THE  GRAY  LAND 148 

SILK  o'  THE  WEED 149 

THE  PLOUGHMAN 150 

DUSK  AND  THE  WHIPPOORWILLS 151 

THE  TEMPEST  152 


CONTENTS  Xi 

PAGE 

Two  BIRDS 154 

IN  THE  DEEP  FOREST 155 

PURSUIT 156 

AFTER  DEATH 158 

LIGHT 160 

THE  MOTHER     161 

OLD  "Buo"  RILET 163 

THEY  SAY 165 

CHARACTER   AND    EPISODE 

FIREARMS 169 

A  CRYING  IN  THE  NIGHT 185 

THE  WOMAN  ON  THE  ROAD 195 

ROBBER  GOLD 203 

THE  BATTLEFIELD     207 

THE  HOUSE  OF  NIGHT 213 

THE  HOUSE  OF  PRIDE      216 

GUILT 219 

THE  OLD  LOVE 221 

IN  LILAC  TIME 223 

THE  RETURN 225 

THE  GRAY  GARDEN 228 

WHEN  THE  YEARS  WERE  YOUNG 230 

THE  HILL  ROAD 233 

ROSE  AND  JASMINE 236 

THE  CLOSE  OF  DAY     238 

FEUDISTS      240 

THE  MOUND  MEN  243 


Xll  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SPANISH  MAIN 247 

THE  BUKDEN  OF  THE  BURIED  DEAD 249 

REFLECTIONS 250 

"On,  WHEN  I  HEARD" 252 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  T.  B.  A 252 

MODERN  POETRY 253 

THE  SECRET  ROOM 253 

THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  TOWER 254 

PANDORA      257 

ATTAINMENT    .   .   .  258 


THE  COMMON  EAKTH 


THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE 
FAERIES 

A  LYRICAL  ECLOGUE 

SCENE:    A.  woodland  among  hills. 
TIME:    The  Present. 

POET 

Well!  well!  as  I  'm  a  poet,  here  's  a  fool! 
What  does  he  here  ? 

FOOL 

What,  sir,  but  keep  him  cool, 
And  pass  the  time  of  day  with  such  as  you. 

POET 

Why,  that 's  my  fool  now !     One  that  Shake 
speare  knew  !  — 
Are  we  in  Arden,  then? 

FOOL 

That 's  telling  tales. 

POET 
Aye  !  it  is  Arden. 


4-'  "ftiE  POET;  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FOOL 

80  we  're  far  as  that!  — 

Show  me  now  where  Audrey  and  Touchstone 
sat. 

POET 

Take  it  from  me,  upon  this  mossy  mat; 

—  There  I    I  'II  swear  it  by  your  bauble's  bat, 

Or  —  my  last  poem. 

FOOL 

Ah  I  then  Poetry  ails, 
Since  you  will  swear,  by  her,  to  what  is  lies? 

POET 

Not  only  does  she  ail,  good  Fool,  but  dies; 
Such  is  the  verdict  of  the  worldly  wise.  — 
But  when  I  saw  her  last  she  looked  not  ill; 
There  was  a  happy  light  in  her  clear  eyes.  — 
That  she  was  dying  is  impossible. 

FOOL 

But  nothing  is  impossible.  —  You're  here! 
A  poet  in  these  woods!  —  Your  poet,  —  well  — 
Keeps  to  the  town  where  there  is  atmosphere. 

POET 

Then  diagnose  me  what  a  poet  is, 
Or  should  be,  Fool. 


THE  COMMON  &ARTK  ,.^        *. ;  I  ' 

FOOL 

Now,  by  the  cap  I  wear! 
Since  Kings  command,  here  's  my  analysis  — 
No  poet  he  of  mart  or  thoroughfare. 

He  measures  facts  by  a  gleam  o'  the  moon, 

And  calendars  days  by  dreams ; 

He  values  less  than  a  wild  bird's  tune 

The  world  of  mortal  schemes : 

He  dons  the  pack  of  the  Work-and-Wait, 

On  the  trail  of  the  Never-Sure, 

And  whistles  a  song  as  he  faces  Fate 

To  follow  the  far-off  lure. 

He  says  a  word  to  the  butterfly, 

And  its  mottled  dream  is  his; 

He  whispers  the  bee,  and  it  makes  reply 

With  a  thought  like  a  honeyed  kiss : 

He  speaks  the  bird,  and  he  speaks  the  snake, 

And  the  ant  in  its  house  of  sand, 

And  their  guarded  wisdom  is  his  to  take, 

And  their  secrets  to  understand. 

He  shares  his  soul  with  the  wayside  rose, 

His  heart  with  the  woodland  weed, 

And  he  knows  the  two  as  himself  he  knows, 

And  the  thoughts  with  which  they  plead: 

To  him  they  speak  in  confidence, 

And  he  answers  them  with  love, 

And  hand  in  hand  with  their  innocence 

Strikes  out  for  the  trail  above. 


FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Sworn  comrade  he  of  the  rocks  and  trees, 

Companion  boon  of  the  brooks; 

Through  whose  hoary  tribes  he  hears  and  sees 

The  things  that  are  not  in  books : 

He  goes  his  way  of  do  and  dare, 

Led  on  by  firefly  gleams, 

And  lays  him  down  with  never  a  care 

By  the  campfire  of  his  dreams. 

POET 

That 's  what  I  call  a  goodly  bit  of  news. 

How  comes  it  that  a  fool  such  things  can  feel, 

And  say  them  too  ?  —  'T  is  strange. 

FOOL 

'T  was  but  a  ruse 
To  get  you  into  argument. 

POET 

I  see. 

But  I,  good  Fool,  with  all  you  said  agree. 
Your  knowledge  now  of  what  a  bard  should  be 
Makes  to  my  heart  a  very  strong  appeal. 
Where  did  you  learn  this  thing  ? 

FOOL 

In  Arcady. 
I  have  a  fair  acquaintance  with  the  Muse. 

POET 

Indeed? 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  7 

FOOL 

You  see  I  only  need  to  choose 
Of  all  fhese  things  that  lie  right  at  my  hand,  — 
That  anyone  with  sense  may  understand,  — 
Select  my  meter  and  arrange  my  rhyme, 
And  there  you  are!  —  my  discourse  moves  to 
time. 

POET 

Behold  the  fool  turned  poet!    Come,  sir,  come! 
Song  must  be  heard.     Too  long  has  she  been 

dumb. 

All  genius  is  half  fool.  —  What  say  you  now 
To  a  good  bout  at  rhyming  ? 

FOOL 

Steel  to  steel, 

With  "  Ho  "  and  "  Ha  "  and,  "  Curse  you  any 
how"?— 

Why  I  fm  your  onion!  cut  or  thrust  or  play  — 
}T  is  easier,  sir,  than  running  down  at  heel. 
I  'II  foin  you  —  well,  an  hour  or  a  day 
And  never  falter  foot. 

POET 

Have  at  you!  —  Pray, 

But  have  a  care,  my  gentle  Fool  I    You  know, 
Apollo  once  brought  Marsyas  to  woe. 

FOOL 
But  you  are  not  Apollo. 


8      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

POET 

Even  so. 

And  well  for  you,  my  Fool:  THAT  saves  your 
skin. 

FOOL 
I  'm  willing  to  be  flayed;  so  let 's  begin. 

All  around, 

In  the  forest,  is  enchanted  ground :  — 

Where  the  sunlight  throws 

Airy-minted  gold 

To  the  lily  and  rose, 

Stretching  flowers,  like  hands,  to  seize  and  hold: 

Where  the  brooks  unfold 

Scrolls  of  music,  crystal  melody, 

For  the  hills  to  hear, 

Leaning  low  an  ear, 

Many  a  leafy  ear, 

Emerald-veined,  on  many  a  listening  tree ; 

Where  the  winds  work  at  their  necromance, 

Eustling-robed,    with    hands    that    glint    and 

glance, 

Weaving,  dim  a-trance, 
Lights  and  shadows  into  tapestry, 
Glimmering  with  many  a  wildflower  dance :  — 
Quaker-Ladies  in  a  saraband, 
Twinkling  hand  in  hand ; 
And,  demurely  met, 
Orchids  in  a  stately  minuet, 
Flirting  eyelids  at  the  amorous  bee, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH 

Bird  and  bee,  in  lyric  ecstasy :  — 

There,  where  none  may  hear. 

Magic,  Mystery, 

Parents  of  Romance, 

Ever  near, 

Work  dim  wonders  with  the  rain  and  sun, 

Mist  and  dew: 

There  the  two 

Plot  enchantments,  old  yet  always  new  — 

Never  hurried ;   never  done 

Dreaming,  weaving, 

All  perceiving, 

Dreams  man's  soul  is  heir  unto : 

Waving,  beckoning  him  to  follow 

Down  the  world,  through  holt  and  hollow ; 

Bidding  see  with  the  spirit's  eyes, 

Heed  and  hear  with  the  soul's  deep  heart, 

Till  the  Mind,  by  the  two  made  wise, 

Come  to  a  shadowy  world  apart, 

And,  hand  in  hand  with  its  ecstasies, 

Enter  the  gateway  of  Surprise, 

And  find  its  dreams  realities. 


POET 

Well  rhymed,  my  Fool.     If  all  men  had  your 

sense 
The  world  would  be  the  wiser. 

FOOL 

That 's  recompense. 

Critics  might  scorn  it;  magazines  reject. 
Howbeit,  Poet,  thanks  for  your  respect. 


10    THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

POET 

You  fve   made   me  somewhat   thoughtful   with 

your  theme; 
And  since  't  is  Spring  I  cannot  help  but  dream. 

V/ 

Where  the  orchid's  faery  flowers 

Lamp  the  forest  ways  with  pearl, 
And  the  sibyl  woodland  hours 
Gossip  with  the  thrush  and  merl: 
Where  the  hill-born  waters  run, 
Bluebell-aproned  in  the  sun, 
Each  one  madcap  as  a  girl 
Dancing  with  wild  hair  awhirl: 

Where  the  bluet  blossoms  wink, 
Constellating  heavens  of  moss ; 
And  around  the  wood  pool's  brink 
Iris  flowers  their  bonnets  toss: 
Where  the  bird's-foot  violet 
And  the  windflower  thickly  set 
Magic  snares  for  hearts  that  cross, 
Wildwood- wandered,  at  a  loss: 

There  the  rough  bee,  busily, 
In  the  haw  tree's  house  of  bloom, 
Plies  his  honeyed  industry, 
Weaving  murmur  and  perfume, 
Spinning  cirques  of  sorcerous  sound, 
Where  old  Time  is  drowsy-bound, 
Like  to  Merlin,  fallen  on  doom, 
Captive  in  a  gleaming  gloom. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  11 

Wheresoever  the  feet  may  stray 
Earth  with  mystery  is  tense; 
Every  tree  trunk  hides  a  fay, 
Every  fern  is  pixy  dense: 
Elfland  lays  an  ambuscade 
In  each  wonder-guarded  glade, 
Taking  prisoner  the  sense 
With  compelling  indolence. 

Till  the  spirit  vision  clears, 
And  before  the  eyes,  behold ! 
Beauty's  very  self  appears, 
As  the  Greeks  believed  of  old : 
In  the  rapture  of  her  gaze 
Glows  the  joy  of  other  days; 
In  her  tresses  all  the  gold 
Of  the  faery  tales  long  told. 

Still  she  keeps  her  body  fair 
For  the  soul  that  knows  not  art ; 
Innocent  and  free  of  care 
Low  she  whispers  to  the  heart, 
As  in  childhood,  when  you  knew, 
And  in  dreams  she  came  to  you, 
In  a  place  remote,  apart, 
Elf  dom,  that  is  on  no  chart. 

Still  within  her  bower  she  waits 
For  the  moment,  long  removed; 
Till,  delivered  of  the  Fates, 
Wakes  again  the  soul  that  loved: 


12      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  to  it  shall  be  revealed 

Secrets  that  she  kept  concealed ; 

And  the  dream,  which  long  behooved,  — 

Beal  as  earth,  —  again  be  proved. 


FOOL 

You  're  not  so  far  wrong  as  it  may  appear 
When  't  comes  to  faeries.  —  Hark  now  !  in  your 

ear: 

I  have  a  secret  I  have  longed  to  tell 
To  some  good  friend;  and  it  concerns  this  dell. 

Where  the  path  leads  through  this  dell 
All  the  way  is  under  spell: 
There,  beneath  the  old  oak  tree, 
Where  the  light  lies  dim  at  noon, 
Elfland  held  its  revelry, 
Danced  and  left  its  yellow  shoon :  — 
You  may  call  them,  if  you  choose, 
Whippoorwill-shoes. 

There  between  a  stalk  and  stem, 
Where  the  crowfoot  hangs  its  gem, 
Golden  in  the  fern's  green  hair, 
Swings  a  hammock,  dips  a  bed, 
Faeryland  has  woven  there 
Out  of  mist  and  moonbeam  thread :  — 
ISTever  web  was  spider  spun 
Like  this  one. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  13 

Yonder  fungus,  pink  and  brown, 
Which  the  slim  snail  silvers  down 
Cautiously,  as  if  afraid 
Of  intrusive  visitors, 
Is  a  table  ouphens  laid 
For  their  feast  beneath  the  stars :  — 
Never  mushroom,  you  may  wis, 
Was  like  this. 

To  this  tree  now  lay  your  ear : 
In  its  heart  you  too  may  hear 
Whispered  wonders,  as  have  I : 
How,  in  frog-skin  pantaloon, 
Moth-wing  gown  and  butterfly, 
Pixies  tripped  here  by  the  moon :  — 
Never  breeze,  or  sap,  I  know, 
Murmurs  so. 

Now  and  then,  whence  none  can  tell, 
Sudden  fragrance  sweeps  the  dell, 
And  your  eyelids  flutter  to :  — 
JT  is  some  glamour,  elfin-wise, 
Passing  very  near  to  you, 
Putting  glimmer  in  your  eyes :  — 
Never  wild-rose  scent,  or  sun, 
So  could  run. 

Thus  it  is  I  look  around 
When  I  tread  this  faery  ground :  — 
There  is  witchcraft  in  the  place ; 
There  is  magic;    there  is  spell; 


14    THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

You  can  feel  it  like  a  face, 
Gazing,  yet  invisible: 
I  have  felt  it ;  you  may  feel :  — 
None  reveal. 

POET 

/  prize  your  revelation,,  and  believe, 

Without  a  reservation,  all  you  say. 

Now,  mark  you;  yonder  —  do  your  eyes  per 
ceive, 

Among  the  leaves  and  flowers,  what's  a-play? 

What  fancies,  —  faeries  ?  —  call  them  by  that 
name  — 

The  two  that  always  must  remain  the  same. 

Like  Rapunzel  within  her  tower, 
Divinely  pale,  in  sweet  distress, 
The  Mayapple,  of  fragile  flower, 
Gives  glimpses  of  its  loveliness: 
And  there,  like  her  the  witch  detained, 
And  walled  with  sleep  and  many  a  briar, 
The  wild  rose  glimmers,  rosy  veined, 
As  if  its  blushes  it  restrained, 
Soft-dreaming  of  its  heart's  desire. 

All  is  at  peace:  the  woods  around 
Stand  silent  as  authorities 
In  contemplation.     Not  a  sound 
Disturbs  their  dream  of  centuries. 
Out  of  their  long  experience 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  15 

In  green  and  gold  they  tell  their  thought; 
And  to  the  soul's  divining  sense 
Deliver  all  the  evidence 
Of  that  for  which  man's  mind  has  sought. 


Retired  as  happiness  that  holds 
The  memory  of  a  grief  that  ?s  gone, 
The  humid  orchis  here  unfolds 
Its  pearl  and  purple  to  the  dawn. 
Around,  the  bluets,  near  and  far, 
Prompt  as  the  skies  they  imitate, 
In  multitudes  that  know  no  bar, 
Reveal  their  beauty,  star  on  star, 
And  nothing  of  their  joy  abate. 


How  one  frail  flower  like  this  can  make 
Immortal  to  the  memory 
A  place,  a  moment,  with  the  ache 
Of  something  more  than  eyes  can  see ! 
And  how  the  soul  will  cling  to  it,  — 
And  in  its  thought  immortalize 
The  happiness  whereon  it  hit 
In  that  one  moment  exquisite 
When  Beauty  took  it  by  surprise. 

FOOL 

Now  I  'II  l)e  open  with  you,  Poet.  —  See, 
Now  you're  my  friend  since  you  believe  like 
me. 


16      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Why,  I  have  seen  things  —  faeries!    Yes,  right 

here  ! 
I  'II  tell  you  of  them.    Listen.    Lend  your  ear. 

I  sat  with  woodland  dreams  one  night, 
Before  the  moon  rose  round  and  white, 
And  saw  the  moth-like  minions  dim, 
Who  guard  the  wild  rose  when  asleep, 
Come  forth:  The  spirits,  small  and  slim 
(Gold-Pollen,  Prickle,  Rain-Bright,  Trim), 
Who  hang  around  each  wildflower's  rim 
Its  carcanet  of  dew,  and  keep 
Its  fair  face  clean  of  things  that  creep. 

I  saw  them,  busily  as  ants, 
Hang  with  pale  gold  the  woodland  plants : 
On  bindweed  tendrils,  one  by  one, 
I  saw  them  loop  long  rows  of  bells, 
That  swung  in  crystal  unison; 
Then  up  the  silken  primrose  run 
(Moth-Feather,  Tripsy,  Light-Foot,  Fun), 
And  to  the  stars  unclasp  its  shells, 
That  filled  with  sweetness  all  the  dells. 

I  saw  the  shapes  that  house  in  trees, 
That  guard  the  nests  of  birds  and  bees: 
Like  sudden  starlight  gleamed  their  hands 
And  leaf-like  bodies,  glimmering  green, 
When  through  the  woods  they  moved  in  bands 
(Wisp,  Foxfire,  Burr,  Jock-o'-the-Brands), 
And  dotted  night  with  firefly  wands ; 


THE   COMMON  EARTH  17 

Peering  with  pin-point  eyes  between 
The  fernleaves  for  some  harm  unseen. 


I  saw  the  fancies  wild,  for  whom 

The  crickets  violin  the  gloom, 

Lead  in  a  pageant  long  of  dreams ; 

To  see  which  even  the  sleepy  snail 

Thrust  out  its  horns;    and  from  the  streams 

(Spraytop-  and  Ripple-chased  it  seems), 

The  trout  leapt  silvery,  showering  gleams 

Of  beryl  'thwart  the  pearly  pale 

Low  moon  that  raised  her  faery  sail. 

And  with  the  moon  came  presences 
Of  gnome-like  things  that  toil  mid  trees ; 
That  build  the  ghost-flower  in  a  night; 
And  set  their  grotesque  shoulders  to 
The  toadstool's  root  and  heave  it  white 
(Troll,  Nixen,  Kobold,  Glowwormlight), 
Into  the  star  dusk;    and  pull  tight 
The  webs  that  frost  themselves  with  dew 
Adown  each  woodland  avenue. 

I  saw  them  rouse  the  moth  and  ride 
The  spider  forth;    and  rein  and  guide 
The  grumbling  beetle  on  its  way; 
And  prick  the  slow  slug  so  it  'd  see 
The  fungus  ruff  of  red  and  gray 
(Lob,  Fly-by- Mght,  and  Lanthornray), 
Where  it  could  gorge  itself  all  day; 


18      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

The  agaric,  which,  tirelessly, 

They  'd  wrung  from  out  the  old  dead  tree. 

These  things  I  saw :   Then  shapes  of  musk 
In  herby  raiment  swarmed  the  dusk ; 
They  rose  from  moss  and  rotted  wood, 
From  loam  and  leaf  and  weed  and  flower: 
Midge-winged  they  swept  the  solitude 
(Rosehip  and  Fernseed,  Lily-Snood), 
A  vague,  ephemeral  sisterhood, 
That  stole  the  sweetness  from  each  bower, 
To  give  it  back  within  the  hour. 

Then  slighter  forms  of  film  and  foam 
Hose  from  the  streams  and  sat,  a  comb 
Of  moon-pearl  in  their  hands :  the  fays, 
Who  herd  the  minnows;   keep  from  harm 
The  dragonfly  that  sleeps  or  sways 
(Foam-Flutter,  Starstep,  Ripple-Rays), 
Like  some  bright  jewel,  on  the  Day's 
White  breast,  when,  starred,  a  golden  charm, 
The  water-lily  opens  warm. 

And  then  I  saw  them  cloud  the  air,  — 
Elf  shapes,  that  came  with  flying  hair, 
Winding  their  gnat-like  bugles :  sprites, 
That  help  the  spider  when  it  weaves 
Its  web ;  or,  lamped  with  glowworm  lights 
(Prank,  Heavy  head,  Bob-up-o'-Mghts), 
Guide  bats  and  owlets  in  their  flights, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  19 

Or  toads  to  where  the  mushroom  heaves 
Its  rosy  round  through  loam  and  leaves. 

These  are  the  dreams  I  sat  with  when 
The  owlet  hooted  in  the  glen; 
These  are  the  dreams  that  came  before 
My  eyelids  in  this  forest  gray  — 
Children  of  Fancy,  Faery  Lore,  — 
Puck,  Ariel,  and  many  more,  — 
Wearing  the  face  that  erst  they  wore 
For  Shakespeare ;   and,  in  some  strange  way, 
As  real  now  as  in  his  day. 

POET 

Since  you  have  spoken,  Sir,  I'll  tell  you  what 
Occurred  to  me  upon  this  selfsame  spot, 
When  soul-sick  of  the  world  I  sought  this  wood, 
Knowing  my  heartache  would  be  understood. 

I  took  the  old  wood  at  its  word, 

And  flung  me  on  its  lap  of  moss ; 

Its  shimmering  arms  above  me  stirred, 

And  green  its  bosom  heaved  across. 

I  felt  its  cool  breath  on  my  cheek, 

As  low  it  leaned  to  see  my  face, 

Whispering,  "  What  is  it,  son,  you  seek  ? 

What  is  it  that  you  would  replace  ? 

What  have  you  lost  ?  what  would  you  find  ?  — 

Is  it  your  heart  ?  or  peace  of  mind  ?  " 


20      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

I  heard  its  question,  not  with  ears, 
But  with  an  inward  sense  of  grief: 
Words  would  not  come,  but  only  tears, 
Slow  tears,  that  brought  me  no  relief. 
Again  the  whisper :  "  Is  it  love  ? 
Or  aspirations  you  have  prized? 
Or  loss  of  faith  in  God  above  ? 
Or  some  far  dream  unrealized  ?  "  — 
"  I  know  not  how,"  my  soul  replied, 
"  But  Poetry,  meseems,  has  died." 

Then  for  a  space  the  wood  was  still.  — 

A  teardrop  fell ;  —  or  was  it  rain 

I  felt  upon  my  face;   the  chill 

Glad  tears  of  Nature  ?  —  Then  again, 

Was  it  her  joy  ?  —  or  just  the  storm 

She  gathered  to  her  breast  awhile  ? 

Then,  quickly,  was  it  sunlight  warm? 

Or  on  her  face  a  quiet  smile  ? 

As  low  I  heard  her  answer  thrill  — 

"  Here  in  my  arms  Song  slumbers  still." 

And,  oh,  I  wakened  as  from  dreams, 
And  saw  her  there,  —  Song,  dim  as  moss : 
And  heard  her  voice,  which  is  the  streams, 
Rill  from  her  pure  throat  leaned  across: 
And  all  around  me,  flower  on  flower, 
I  saw  her  wild  thoughts  gleam  and  glow ; 
And  through  them,  by  some  subtle  power, 
Beheld  my  soul's  dreams  come  and  go. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  21 

Long  mourned  as  dead,  no  more  to  part, 
I  took  her  sobbing  to  my  heart. 

FOOL 

Why,  you  are  Nature's  favored  son,  I  see. 
But  hark  you  now:  She  too  has  let  me  know 
Soul-intimacy :  Once  with  eyes  of  glee 
She  made  the  Wind's  self  visible  to  me  — 
The  elfin  Wind!  —  You  were  not  favored  so. 

I  saw  her  there  among  the  leaves, 

A  slender  spirit  none  perceives, 

The  Wind,  who  still  her  magic  weaves, 

Romancing : 

I  heard  her  feet,  as  soft  as  thieves' ; 

And  then  the  silken  swish  of  sleeves, 

Steal  'round  the  forest's  fluttered  eaves, 

A-dancing. 

She  leaned  and  whispered  in  the  ear 
Of  every  wildflower  something  dear,  — 
How  to  protect  their  hearts  from  fear 
Of  dying: 

Then  took  the  thistle's  feathery  sphere 
And  glimmered  it  across  the  mere, 
Or  on  a  cobweb,  trailing  near, 
Went  flying. 

The  butterfly,  that  comes  and  goes, 
She  tosses  on  the  wilding  rose; 
Then  teases 


22     THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

The  blossomed  bee  that  whines ;  and  blows 
Into  each  bud  till  wide  it  grows ; 
When  swift  its  musk  that  overflows 
She  seizes. 


Then  fine  and  fair  away  she  trips, 
Wood  perfume  on  her  wildwood  lips, 
To  where,  with  twinkling  fingertips, 
Day's  daughter, 

The  Gloaming,  waits ;   and  Silence  drips : 
There  from  her  gown  of  light  she  slips, 
And  with  the  star  of  twilight  dips 
The  water. 

POET 

Surely  you  have  good  eyes,,  Sir.  —  Long  ago 
The  ancient  wisdom  of  the  world,  that  Snake 
Of  God's  own  Eden,  in  such  shapes  did  show 
Himself  to  mortals,  making  their  senses  ache 
With  longings  for  a  loveliness  that  drew 
The  mind  of  man  beyond  the  things  he  knew. 


The  Snake,  that  once  in  Eden  spake, 
The  ancient  Snake,  that  wrought  our  woe, 
Still  lies  with  bright  green  eyes  awake 
By  every  wildwood  path  we  go: 
We  may  not  see  him ;  may  not  know : 
But  still  he  waits  eternal  there 
Watching  whatever  way  we  fare. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  23 

We  feel  his  presence  in  the  leaves, 

That  murmur  of  forgotten  things : 

Of  longings,  and  of  love  that  grieves 

For  whilom  joys  and  happenings: 

Of  vanished  lights  and  broken  wings, 

And  all  the  perished  host,  it  seems, 

That  once  made  fair  the  hills  and  streams. 

We  hear  him  whispering  in  the  trees, 
And  in  the  waters  of  the  rocks, 
Of  wildwood  dreams  and  mysteries, 
That  'tend  the  visionary  flocks 
Of  Beauty  who,  eluding,  mocks 
All  efforts  of  the  human  mind 
To  seize  her  and  forever  bind. 

We  see  his  eyes  at  sunset  flame 
And  pierce  the  centuried  forest  through, 
Looking  the  things  that  have  no  name, 
To  which  our  longings  are  a  clue ;  — 
And  memories  of  lives  we  knew 
Flow  back  from  outer  nothingness 
Upon  our  souls  to  curse  or  bless. 

Amorphous,  dim,  he  folds  us  round 
In  darkness,  like  another  night: 
His  rustling  body  wreathes  the  ground, 
His  eyeballs  burn  with  emerald  light : 
We  hear  and  see  and  feel  his  might,  — 
That  made  religions  once  of  old,  — 
With  worship  of  dead  myths  take  hold. 


24      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

He  is  a  part  of  what  we  see 

Yet  do  not  see;    of  what  we  hear 

Yet  never  hear :  within  each  tree 

And  rock  and  stream  he  watches  near, 

Addressing  now  the  spirit  ear 

With  thoughts ;    and  now  the  spirit  eye 

With  dreams  that  pass  but  never  die. 

FOOL 

That  takes  me  lack  to  times  when  men  wore 

skins; 
When  Earth  teemed  dragons;  tons,  that  soared, 

with  wings; 

Or  isled  the  ocean  with,  enormous  fins: 
Primordial  guesses  at  approaching  things. 
Why,  while  you  spoke,  in  mind  I  seemed  to  go 
Back  to  creation;   to  the  very  day 
God  wrought  a  mate  for  man.    Meseems  I  know, 
Yes,  am  quite  sure,  He  made  her  in  this  way. 

I  saw  Him  first  set  up  a  bone, 
And  breathe  on  it  until  it  shone 
And  grew  a  heart,  to  curse  or  bless, 
And  filled  with  love  and  wantonness, 
All  HelFs  delight,  all  Heaven's  distress. 

Then  to  Himself  God  smiling  said, 

"  The  heart 's  the  least ;   far  more  the  head." 

He  shaped  the  head ;   then  molded  fair 

The  bright  destruction  of  her  hair, 

!And  therein  made  for  man  a  snare. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  25 

In  front  He  painted  fresh  her  face, 

All  innocent,  divine  of  grace; 

But  underneath  the  angel  mien 

He  hid  a  devil,  dark,  unclean, 

A  monster  thing  whose  gaze  was  green. 

Into  the  face  He  set  the  eyes, 
Full  of  beguilement  and  surmise, 
Of  prayer  and  passion,  make-believe, 
And  tears  and  laughter,  to  deceive 
The  heart  of  man  God  meant  to  grieve. 

The  nose  and  mouth  He  fashioned  next : 
The  nose  precise;    the  mouth  perplexed 
With  virtue  and  the  quenchless  thirst 
For  fruit  forbidden,  blest  and  curst 
With  longings  for  life's  best  and  worst. 

Then  loud  God  laughed  and  spake  again: 
"  Without  the  body  all  were  vain !  "  — 
And  underneath  the  head  he  set 
The  throat  and  breasts,  like  roses  met, 
And  arms;    all  portions  of  the  net. 

The  torso  then  and  limbs  of  snow 
He  made  and  fixed  them  fair  below : 
And  in  her  feet  and  in  her  breast 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  unrest 
And  vanity  of  soul  distressed. 


26      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

"  Behold !  "  God  said,  "  my  masterpiece ! 
Through  whom  the  world  shall  know  increase.  — 
And  man  will  give  me  thanks,  I  know, 
And  laud  My  work,  and,  heart  aglow, 
Accept  My  gift  and  all  his  woe." 

POET 

No  woman  fd  thank  you  for  that,  understand! 
What  an  arraignment  of  the  sex  !  —  You  went 
A  little  far  there,  friend.    And,  out  of  hand, 
You  are  a  fool  who  has  grown  insolent; 
That  *s  what  fair  Eve  would  say.  —  Look  where 

yon  cloud 
Takes  on  strange  shape,  with  pearl  and  azure 

browed: 

Perhaps  it  beckons  us,  —  what  do  you  say  ?  — 
To  fairer  dreams  of  the  lost  Far  Away. 

Far  away,  oh,  far  away, 

Where  the  clouds  grow  up  and  the  shadows  gray ; 

Where  twilight  dreams  and  the  rain-wind  sleeps, 

And  the  cloud-born  waterfall,  singing,  leaps. 

Oh,  there,  whatever  the  soul  may  say,  — 

Far  away,  aye,  far  away,  — 

Is  the  happy  Land  of  Yesterday. 

Loveliness  walks  on  its  hills,  and  sighs ; 
And  friendship  smiles  from  its  oldtime  skies ; 
Love,  like  a  maid  who  walks  in  dreams, 
Flutters  with  white  its  vales  and  streams : 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  27 

And  over  it  all  a  gladness  lies,  — 

As  soft  as  eyes,  as  love's  own  eyes,  — 

And  heart's  ease,  breathing  slumberous  sighs. 

Never  near,  oh,  never  near, 

That  Land  where  dreams  of  the  heart  appear ; 

Where  Revery  lays  her  spirit  bare, 

And  Mystery  lures  with  golden  hair: 

Oh,  there,  whatever  the  heart  may  hear,  — 

Never  near,  yes,  never  near,  — 

Is  the  Land  of  Ghosts  that  our  hearts  hold  dear. 

Witchery  waits  by  its  lonely  ways 

With  mild-eyed  dreams  of  other  days ; 

And  down  old  paths,  where  young  feet  went, 

Faith,  with  her  open  testament, 

Walks  with  Hope  through  the  golds  and  grays 

Of  oldtime  ways,  remembered  ways, 

The  look  in  her  face  of  long-past  Mays. 

Never  near  and  far  away 

Are  the  lone,  lost  Lands  of  Yesterday 

And  dim  To-morrow,  where  dream  and  ghost 

Wander  and  whisper  and  beckon  us  most. 

Open  your  gates  in  the  Cloudland  gray, 

Never  near  and  far  away, 

And  let  us  in  where  our  longings  stray. 

FOOL 

Well,  you  and  I  can  always  journey  there : 

We  have  the  receipt  of  fernseed.    But  beware! 


28      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

How  you  step  yonder,  by  that  tree.  —  Meseems 
I  saw  a  Faery  hide  there.  —  Plow  absurd!  — 
It 's  but  a  burnished  beetle.    How  it  gleams! 
It  could  tell  tales  now,  if  it  would!  —  my  word! 

Last  night  beneath  this  ancient  tree, 

Dim  in  the  moonlight  and  the  ferns, 

The  elfin  folk  held  revelry, 

I  know  by  what  my  soul  discerns 

Mysteriously. 

For,  look  you,  where  yon  circle  runs 
Of  bluets,  winking  very  wise, 
The  rapture  of  those  tricksy  ones 
Has  put  confusion  in  their  eyes, 
That  meet  the  sun's. 

And,  mark  you,  how  the  toadstool  there 
Protrudes  its  bulk  in  Falstaff  state; 
It  too  has  seen,  I  well  will  swear, 
An  elf,  and  learned  to  imitate 
His  pompous  air. 

And  where  that  lichen  lays  a  streak 
Of  rose,  fair  as  a  flowering  stock, 
The  place  but  recollects  her  cheek, 
The  fay's,  who  danced  upon  this  rock 
Above  the  creek. 

And,  hark!  between  this  rock  and  root, 
Where,  shrill,  the  cricket  pipes  away, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  29 

A  faery  dropped  a  magic  flute, 
That  never  stops,  but  still  must  play 
For  faery  foot. 

And  that  same  beetle,  glittering  by, 

Has  mailed  itself,  as  it  has  seen 

Titania's  guard,  in  royal  dye 

Of  bronz  and  green,  when  round  their  queen 

They  caught  its  eye. 

The  toad  that  squats,  observing  naught, 
By  yonder  mushrooms'  bench  and  bar, 
Has  donned  the  Puck-wise  look  he  caught 
From  Oberon's  chief  councilor 
In  judgment  sought. 

The  bees  that  murmur  drowsy  here, 
The  gnats  and  wood-Hies,  but  repeat 
The  music  which  a  sleepy  ear 
Caught  when  all  Elfland  rose  to  greet 
Queen  Mab  with  cheer. 

Oh,  there  is  more  than  eye  may  see, 
That  to  the  moon  is  visible  I  — 
If  it  could  speak,  this  ancient  tree, 
What  would  it  say?  what  would  it  tell 
Of  Faerie  ? 

But  it  —  it  keeps  its  council  close, 
As  do  the  crickets  and  the  flowers :  — 
Ah,  could  it  speak  and  tell  of  those ! 


30      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

What  tales  we  7d  hear,  of  elfin  powers ! 
What  things  none  knows ! 

POET 

Spring  's  taken  full  possession  of  your  brain, 
And  I  can  feel  it  working  here  in  mine; 
Why,  there  she  stands  with  all  her  radiant  train, 
The  Spring  herself,  beneath  a  wildgrape-vine. 

There  her  beauty  dons  a  gown 
White  of  dogwood  blooms, 
And  goes  dreaming  up  and  down 
Through  the  wood's  dim  rooms; 
Waters,  falling,  make  a  sound 
Like  her  heart's  full  beat; 
And  the  silence  all  around      / 
Rustles  with  her  feet. 

There  the  iris,  timidly, 

From  its  hood  of  dew, 

To  the  wind  that  wanders  by 

Lifts  an  eye  of  blue : 

Here  the  cautious  violet, 

As  if  it  could  hear 

Music  none  has  dreamed  of  yet, 

Lays  to  earth  an  ear. 

There  the  winds  on  tiptoe  tread, 
Lullabying  low 

To  the  bee  whose  blossom-bed 
Rocks  now  fast,  now  slow. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  31 

Here  the  sunlight,  like  a  charm, 
Lays  a  touch  of  gold, 
As  if  summoning  some  form, 
Gnome-like,  from  the  mold. 

Here  the  Mayapple,  that  seems 

In  a  wax- white  trance, 

With  suggestions  of  its  dreams 

Clouds  its  countenance. 

On  the  hush  no  sound  intrudes, 

Save  a  redbird's  song, 

And  the  wood-brook's  interludes 

Singing  low  along. 

Presences  of  wind  and  light, 
Myths,  the  Spring  gives  form, 
Glow  upon  the  spirit-sight, 
With  compelling  charm; 
Blushing  into  bloom  and  breeze, 
Making  sweet  the  house, 
Where  the  white  Spring  takes  her  ease 
Under  blossoming  boughs. 

Grant  me,  Heaven,  eyes  to  see, 

Evident  of  grace, 

Her  divine  virginity, 

Naked,  face  to  face ! 

All  her  goddess  loveliness, 

So  I  may  adore, 

Like  Tiresias  of  old, 

Blind  forevermore. 


32     THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FOOL, 

Now  you  have  said  it! —  Things  seem  all  agog 
For  something  that  has  happened  or  will  hap: 
Why,  look  you  there,  even  this  moldering  log 
Has  clothed  itself  in  moss,  and  spreads  its  lap 
For  some  wild  sylvan3 's  seat;  or  for  the  Queen 
Of  all  the  Wood  Sprites  to  survey  the  scene. 

The  flag-flower  flies  an  azure  streak; 
The  dogtooth  violet  bugles  out:' 
What  festival,  beside  this  creek, 
Is  Faeryland  about  ? 


The  bluebell  in  the  wind  swings  peals 
Of  azure,  and  the  poppies  chime 
A  golden  call,  whose  sound  reveals 
How  Elfland  trips  to  time. 


Such  ecstasy  as  that  which  sings, 
Compelling,  in  each  root  and  seed, 
And  in  the  egg  wakes  wilding  wings 
That  flutter  to  be  freed. 


Soul  music,  ear  has  never  heard, 
That  breathes  o'er  earth  its  living  breath, 
And  flings  Life's  last  triumphant  word 
Full  in  the  face  of  Death. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  33 

POET 

Death ?  death ?  —  There  is  no  death !  —  I  know! 

—  And  why?  — 

I  've  been  to  Avalon,  the  shadowy  Isle, 
And  know  the  Beautiful  can  never  die. 
That  God  permitted  for  a  little  while 
To  walk  the  Earth  and  cheer  us  with  its  smile. 

For  I  have  been  in  Avalon, 
And  walked  its  glimmering  groves  among, 
And  talked  with  Beauty,  dead  and  gone, 
And  Love  that  lives  in  ancient  song. 
Yes,  I  have  been  in  Avalon: 
Therefore,  you  see,  my  brow  is  wan. 

Remembering  still  the  look  of  those 
Sore-wounded  ones,  who  loved  in  vain, 
Whose  lives  are  wrapped  now  in  repose, 
Freed  from  the  vassalage  of  pain, 
An  inner  peace  my  spirit  wears 
Regardful  of  that  look  of  theirs. 

Pale  violet  were  the  belting  seas, 
And  violet  too  both  hill  and  dale ; 
And,  unremembering,  over  these 
The  heaven  like  a  violet  pale; 
And  cliff  and  mountain  from  the  steep 
Let  down  dim  streams  as  if  asleep. 

And  here  and  there  the  ancient  woods 
Spread  mighty  and  majestic  robes, 


34      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Wherein  were  woven  attitudes 
Of  beauty,  marble-pale :  dim  globes 
And  towers  of  loveliness,  it  seemed 
The  Island  into  being  dreamed. 

No  sun  I  saw;   I  saw  no  moon: 
But  twilight  dreamed  forever  there, 
With  shadowy  starlight  all  a-swoon, 
Above  the  blue  and  quiet  air: 
While  all  around,  from  east  to  west, 
The  consecration  lay  of  rest. 

There  saw  I  queens  of  old  romance, 
And  glimmering  kings  of  legend  pass ; 
And  on  their  brows  and  in  their  glance 
I  read  their  dreams  as  in  a  glass: 
And,  of  my  soul  remembered  yet, 
The  dreams  have  taught  me  to  forget. 

But  in  their  hearts  my  heart  could  read 
!No  memory  of  what  had  been; 
No  old  regret  for  thought  or  deed, 
Or  that  they  once  were  king  and  queen. 
They  had  forgotten  •  all  thereof  — 
The  hate  of  earth  as  well  as  love. 

Long  time  I  spake  them,  dim,  apart ; 

Long  time  I  talked  with  queen  and  king, 

While  through  the  heaven  of  my  heart 

Oblivion  trailed  a  twilight  wing; 

And  on  my  spirit's  lifted  brow 

Was  poured  the  peace  that  haunts  it  now. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  35 

Yes,  I  have  been  in  Avalon, 
The  faery  Isle  in  faery  seas; 
Therefore  it  is  my  face  is  wan, 
My  heart  at  peace  remembering  these. 
It  may  not  be,  and  yet  —  I  seem 
Forever  waking  from  a  dream. 

FOOL 

That fs  where  I  came  from.     I'm  a  prisoner, 

too, 

In  this  mad  world.    Why,  I  was  Dagonet, 
King  Arthur  s  fool.     'T  was  there  I  met  with 

you: 

And  you  were  Tristram.  —  I  cannot  forget 
How  well  you  sang  once  of  the  fair  Isolt; 
You  dare  not  tell  me  that  you  have  forgot  ?  — 
These  airs  of  Spring  help  memory  a  lot.  — 
The  world  is  changed  since  then,  or  I'm  a,  dolt. 

Is  that  the  acid  sorrel 

And  honey-scented  clover  ?  — 

Or  can  it  be  a  quarrel 

Of  wood  nymphs  in  the  cover? 

Who  in  their  leafy  wrangle 

Shake  fragrance  from  the  tangle 

Of  boughs  that  wildflowers  spangle. 

Oh,  witchcraft  of  the  sorrel! 
Oh,  glamour  of  the  clover !  — 
Do  you  not  glimpse  the  coral- 
Tipped  breasts  of  each  wood-lover? 


36      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Eacli  dryad,  slow  unsheathing 
Dim  limbs  from  bark  enwreathing 
Her  bosom,  blossom-breathing? 

Oh,  sorcery  of  sorrel! 
Oh,  magic  of  the  clover !  — 
What  glimmers  through  the  laurel  ? 
What  wings  its  white  way  over  ?  — 
What  myth,  that  haunts  these  bowers, 
Child  of  the  winds  and  flowers, 
Touches  this  world  of  ours  ? 

The  rosy  tips  of  sorrel, 

And  purple  cups  of  clover, 

Bewitch  my  soul,  and  star  all 

The  ways  with!  dreams  that  hover :  — 

Dreams,  shadowy  as  Isis, 

Who  somehow  there  arises, 

Born  of  my  soul's  surmises. 

POET 

Dreams!  dreams!  enough  of  dreams!  of  myths 

and  dreams! 

Here  now  's  reality:  a  faery  flower. 
That 's  substance   for  you.     How   its  beauty 

seems 
T'  invest  the  moment  with  immortal  dower! 

Flower  of  the  wet  wild  woodland,  lonely  flower, 
Trembling  in  elfin  beauty  by  the  brink 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  37 

Of  this  wild  stream,   which  murmurs  of  the 

shower, 
That  brimmed  its  breast  with  joy  for  quite  an 

hour,  — 
Would  I  could  read  the  faery  thoughts  you 

think, 

And  hear  of  ouphen  marvels,  all  awink, 
That  met  your  eyes  last  night  in  this   dark 

bower ! 

Dim  as  the  web  the  spider  slenderly 
Hammocks  at  dusk  for  Dawn  to  rope  with  dew ; 
Pale  in  the  moonbeam,  at  their  revelry, 
You  have  beheld  the  Elves  around  this  tree 
Wild-whirling.    And  could  we  but  learn  of  you, 
Then  might  we  find  of  Faeryland  the  clue, 
The  shibboleth,  the  open  sesame. 

That  world  our  childhood   entered,   manhood 

lost: 

Invisible  except  unto  the  heart: 
A  world  whose  far  dominions  none  has  crossed : 
That  to  the  soul  shows  its  immortal  coast 
But  once  in  life ;    and,  intimated  part 
Of  all  our  dreams,  strives  ever  through  high  art 
To  make  them  real  to  the  uttermost. 

Ah,  flower  of  the  whirlwind  and  the  fain ! 
Frail  forest  flower,  on  whose  lip  of  spar 
Spring  leaves  her  chilly  kiss,  a  rosy  stain, 
What  profits  all  this  dreaming,  since  again, 


38    THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

The  clue  escapes  us  ?  hope,  that  leads  us  far, 
Teasing  the  soul  beyond  its  mortal  bar, 
Only  to  find,  alas!  all  dreams  are  vain. 

Fooi, 

There  spoke  no  botanist,  upon  my  word! 
But  a  true  poet,  Sir.    Why,  even  a  fool 
Can  see  through  that.    All  dreaming  is  absurd 
To  sordid  souls,  who  come  not  here  to  school.  — 
Look!  there  are  wild  peas,  bless  ihem!  —  and 

they  dream 
Of  other  things,  I  thinJc,  than  that  they  seem. 

Here  ?s  the  tavern  of  the  bees : 
Here  the  butterflies,  that  swing 
Velvet  cloaks,  and  to  the  breeze 
Whisper  soft  conspiracies, 
Pledge  their  Lord,  the  Faery  King: 
Here  the  hotspur  hornets  bring 
Fiery  word,  and  drink  away 
Heat  and  hurry  of  the  day. 

Here  the  merchant  bee,  his  gold 
On  his  thigh,  falls  fast  asleep; 
And  the  armored  beetle  bold, 
Like  an  errant-knight  of  old, 
Feasts  and  tipples  pottles-deep: 
While  the  friar  crickets  keep 
Creaking  low  a  drinking-song, 
Like  an  Ave,  all  day  long. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  39 

Here  the  baron  bumblebee, 
Grumbling  in  his  drowsy  cup, 
Half  forgets  his  knavery : 
Dragonflies  sip  swaggeringly, 
Cavaliers  who  stop  to  sup: 
To  whose  brag  come  whining  up 
Gnats,  the  thieves,  that  tap  the  tuns 
Of  the  honeyed  musk  that  runs. 

Here  the  jewelled  wasp,  that  goes 
On  his  swift  highwayman  way, 
Seeks  a  moment  of  repose, 
Drains  his  cup  of  wine-of-rose, 
Sheathes  his  dagger  for  the  day: 
And  the  moth,  in  downy  gray, 
Like  some  lady  of  the  gloom, 
Slips  into  a  perfumed  room. 

When  the  darkness  cometh  on, 
Round  the  tavern,  golden  green, 
Fireflies  flit  with  torches  wan, 
Looking  if  the  guests  be  gone, 
Linkboys  of  the  Faery  Queen: 
Lighting  her  who  rides,  unseen, 
To  her  elfin  sweetpea  bower, 
Where  she  rests  a  scented  hour. 

POET 

Yes;  there  is  witchcraft  in  these  woods.  —  Right 

there, 
Beyond  those  vales,  are  hills  where  I  have  been 


40      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  talked  with  visions.    If  I  did  but  dare, 
I  too  might  tell  you  of  the  things  I  've  seen. 

Old  hills,  that  break  the  far  horizon's  fall, 
Within  my  heart  again  I  hear  you  call, 
Bidding  me  come  and  talk  with  mysteries 
Of  woodlands  where,  pale-pooled,  the  waters  lie, 
In  whose  enchanted  glass  the  forest  sees 
Its  form  reflected  and  the  dreams  go  by 
Of  silence  and  of  solitude,  who  keep 
Watch  round  their  mirrors,  gazing  long  and 
deep. 

My  hills!   gray-peopled   with   the   wraiths   of 

rain  — 

Mist-ghosts,  that  gather  and  dissolve  again: 
Pale  exhalations  that,  in  dim  retreats 
Of  foam  and  fern,  above  the  slim  cascade 
Fling  wild  a  rainbow;    or,  in  slender  sheets 
Of  foggy  stealth,  phantom  the  dripping  glade, 
Where  Witchcraft  cabins  with  her  wildflower 

spells, 
Filling  the  wood  with  magic  of  their  bells. 

Hills,  that  the  moon's  white  feet,  how  oft !  have 

kissed : 
Where  wan  Endymion  and  his  dreams  keep 

tryst : 

Where  the  pale  soul  of  Beauty  doth  abide, 
Whispering  her  legends,  to  the  cradled  flowers, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  41 

Of  filmy  things,  moth-gowned  and  glowworm  - 

eyed, 

Who  lace  the  ways  and  gossamer  the  bowers 
With  webs  for  dews  to  tiptoe  and  bewitch 
With  pearl  and  crystal  till  each  weed  is  rich. 

Hills,  from  whose  breasts,  in  drowsy  fancy,  rise 
The    perfume-thoughts    of    flowers;     fragrant 

sighs ; 

And  dim  damp  dreams  of  fungi :  imagings 
Of  Haunters   of  the   ferns  who,   through  the 

night, 

Speed  thin  the  tumult  of  invisible  wings, 
That  take  the  heart  with  terror  and  delight, 
Dreaming  it  hears  the  nymph  who  fled  from 

Pan, 
And  all  the  immortal  myths  that  with  her  ran. 

Old  hills!  beyond  you,  in  my  soul  I  know, 
Still  lies  the  Wonderland  of  Long  Ago, 
High-mountained  and  deep-valley ed ;  elfed  with 

streams, 
WTiere  old  Enchantment  builds  her  bower  of 

bloom, 

And  Magic  rears  his  City  of  Lost  Dreams, 
Templed  with  glory  that  no  time  shall  doom: 
The  shadow  of  whose  marvels,  as  of  old, 
Still  lures  me  in  the  sunset's  towers  of  gold. 


42      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FOOL 

From  following  that  lure  you  got  that  look. 
The  mystery  is  solved  why  you  are  here, 
And  I  can  see  now  why  your  eye  's  so  clear.  — 
I,  too,  have  walked  with  spirits;  by  this  brook; 
The  lonely  spirits  of  the  changing  year. 

One  haunts  the  woods  that  Spring  makes  wet, 

Trailing  faint  skirts  of  violet : 

She  sits  between  the  shade  and  shine 

And  turns  to  heaven  a  trillium-face, 

Plaiting  her  locks  of  celandine 

That  ripple  to  her  throat's  green  lace 

Of  ferns,  whereat,  ethereal  blue, 

The  iris  sparkles,  gemmed  with  dew. 

And  I  have  met  the  one  who  goes, 
With  hands  of  berry-stain  and  rose, 
With  Summer.    Or  divined  her  near 
By  some  warm  wind's  dim  evidence 
Of  lily  scent  or  lavender, 
Or  plum,  red-ripening  by  some  fence, 
Near  which  she  sat  with  head  a-nod, 
Rich-robed  in  broom  and  goldenrod. 

But  in  the  rotting  woods  of  Fall 
She  turns  a  witch  and  with  wild  call 
Walks  arm  in  arm  with  Death,  and  shakes 
A  head  of  moldy  moss  and  grass ; 
Her  weedy  cloak  among  the  brakes 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  43 

Hangs  torn;  and  wheresoe'er  she  pass 
The  woods  grow  conscious  of  decay, 
And  pulpy  toadstools  mark  her  way. 

In  Winter  I  have  found  her  dead, 
The  berried  thorn  about  her  head ; 
Her  face,  an  icy  fragment,  cold, 
Rimmed  with  white  locks  of  frost  and  snow ; 
Her  tattered  shroud,  the  tarnished  gold 
Of  leaves  that  on  the  old  beech  blow; 
And  in  her  withered  hand  the  last 
Wild  thistle,  twisted  by  the  blast. 

POET 

Yes,  you  have  met  them.    1,  too,  let  me  tell, 
Have  looked  on  spirits  in  this  forest  dell. 
Mark  you,  —  this  very  moment,  while  you  spoke. 
Something  befell  me  that  enthrals:  It  seems 
I  saw  as  sees  this  tree,  this  ancient  oak, 
The  Presences  of  beauty  Nature  dreams. 

There  where  the  whiteheart's  blossom  clings, 

And  columbine  is  frailly  flushed, 

Just  where  that  cat-bird  sings  and  swings, 

And  water  wild  is  rushed,  — 

The  old  oak  crooked  its  arm  at  me, 

That    branch,    and    said,    "  Come    here    and 

see!"  — 

And,  with  a  hand  of  witchery, 
A  leaf  my  forehead  brushed. 


44      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And,  lo,  a  voice,  like  some  old  friend's, 

Spoke  softly,  —  "  See  what  none  has  seen :  — 

Where  myth  begins  and  matter  ends, 

And  all  that  lies  between."  — 

And,  lo !  the  dream  which  haunts  the  rose 

Took  on  faint  form;    and,  at  repose, 

The  thought,  which  in  the  tree's  heart  grows, 

Revealed  itself  in  green. 

I  saw  the  spirit,  white  and  wild, 
That  dances  with  the  waterfall; 
And  like  the  beauty  of  a  child 
Hangs  laughing  over  all : 
I  saw  the  faery  of  the  fern 
Swing  wet  its  web  at  every  turn; 
And  in  the  dew  the  pixy  burn 
Who  holds  the  grass  in  thrall. 

I  saw  the  sylphids  of  the  light 
Gleam  into  being  —  print  the  ground ; 
And  with  them,  whispering  into  sight, 
The  wind  with  wildflowers  crowned : 
I  saw  the  sylvan  sit  at  ease 
Behind  the  bark  of  covering  trees; 
And  in  the  brambles,  watching  these, 
The  Faun  whom  none  hath  bound. 

I  saw  the  harmony  around,  — 
Bee-murmur,  wing-beat,  burst  of  song,  — 
Evolve  a  silvery  shape  of  sound, 
That  nymph-like  moved  along: 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  45 

I  saw  the  happiness  that  fills 
The  heart  of  things,  that  never  stills, 
Run  with  the  rapture  of  the  rills, 
A  goddess  straight  and  strong. 

A  moment  more  and  I  had  seen 

The  soul  itself  of  Beauty  bared, 

And  all  that  Nature's  love  may  mean 

To  me  had  been  declared : 

Her  dreams  grotesque,  or  beautiful, 

Her  mysteries,  —  no  years  annul, 

That  keep  the  world  from  growing  dull,  — 

By  me  had  then  been  shared. 

Between  the  unknown  and  the  known, 

Bewildered  with  the  vision,  I 

Let  go  the  bough,  whose  touch  had  shown 

What  hides  from  every  eye : 

The  charm  was  snapped ;  the  spell  was  o'er ; 

The  forest  lay  there  as  before, 

Mere  lights  and  shadows,  nothing  more, 

And  winds  that  whispered  by. 

FOOL 

She  's  always  dreaming  —  Nature.     There  she 

goes, 

Putting  it  on  her  canvas  in  vast  strokes 
Of  sunset:  gold  and  cinnabar  and  rose., 
That  vision  forth  the  glory,  say,  which  glows 
Around   God's  throne,  transforming  all  those 

oaks. 


46      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

POET 

Deep  in  the  west 

A  tattered  bulk  of  cloud, 

A  magic  galleon,  gold  of  hull  and  shroud, 

Rolls,  —  ribbed  with  fire,  —  on  some  perilous 

quest : 

Now,  from  deep  rifts 
Of  darkening  rose, 

A  daemon  castle,  burning  ruby,  grows,  — 
An  Afrit  palace  which  enchantment  lifts. 

FOOL 

The  hut  on  the  hilltop, 
The  pool  in  the  sand, 
The  rock  by  the  wayside 
Seem  touched  by  a  hand, 
And  answer  a  summons 
To  put  off  the  old, 
Discard  their  disguises, 
And  burn  into  gold. 

POET 

Deep  in  the  east 

Th'  anticipating  sky 

Silvers  with  light  as  of  a  presence  nigh, 

Divinity,     shepherding    clouds,     pale,     pearly 

fleeced ; 

Upon  whose  view, 
From  gradual  deeps 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  47 

Of  glimmering  dusk,  huntress  Diana  leaps, 
Her  moonbeam-arrows  spearing  them  through 
and  through. 

FOOL 

The  heart  of  the  clover, 
The  soul  of  the  rose, 
The  spirits  of  water 
And  leaves  in  repose, 
Dissolve  their  enchantment, 
And  tell  to  the  dusk 
The  dreams  that  invest  them 
With  music  and  musk. 

Madmen  or  fools  that  maunder,  men  would  say; 
Who  'd  see  no  more  there  than  mere  golds  and 

reds. 

And  name  it  simply  "  Sunset  " ;   go  their  way, 
Their  minds  upon  their  dinners  and  their  beds. 

POET 

We  have  our  poetry  and  they  have  theirs: 
Theirs  takes  a  more  material  form  than  ours.  — 
How  wild  the  woods  smell  now!  how  sweet  the 

airs ! 

Look  where  the  Twilight  for  her  -flight  pre 
pares; 
And  drops  her   'brooch,   the   evening-star   she 

wears, 

At   Night's   dark   feet,   on   Heavens   topmost 
towers. 


48      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

When  I  am  dead,  my  soul  shall  haunt  these 

woods, 

As  bird  or  bee, 

These  dim,  grave  forests  where  no  foot  intrudes 
Irreverently. 

Where  Spring  proclaims  herself  in  orchis  pale 
And  moccasin-flower, 

And  many  another  bloom  that  tells  its  tale 
To  sun  and  shower. 

Here  shall  my  soul  go  singing  all  day  long 
With  wren  and  thrush, 
Or,  with  the  bee,  hum  honey-sweet  among 
The  hyssoped  hush. 

Or  all  night  long,  wild  with  the  whippoorwill, 

Wail  to  the  moon ; 

Or  with  the  moth  slip  glimmering,  white  and 

still, 
Where  flowers  lie  strewn. 

Here  I  shall  watch  and  see  the  ghosts  go  by 
Of  all  the  loves, 

The  forest  lovers  who  have  loved,  as  I, 
Deep  woods  and  groves. 

And  they  will  know  me  —  not  as  bee  or  bird  — 

But  for  a  soul 

Through  whom  the  forest  speaks   an  ancient 

word 
Of  joy  and  dole. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  49 

And  meditative  moods  of  bliss  and  pain 

Shall  with  me  fare, 

And  thoughts,  that  haunt  the  shimmering  sun 

and  rain, 
With  irised  hair. 

And  living  visions  too  shall  pass  me  by, 
Or  with  me  go 

Singing  of  beauty,  who  with  quiet  eye 
Shall  bid  me  know. 

And  to  my  heart  her  message  shall  be  clear 
In  ways  unknown ; 

And  dreams,  that  whispered  at  my  mortal  ear, 
Shall  there  be  shown. 

And  I  shall  speak  then  with  the  bird  and  bee, 
And  tree  and  flower, 

And  they  shall  know  me  part  of  all  they  see, 
And  bless  the  hour. 

FOOL 

The  dictionaries  have  a  name  for  all 

Who  love  the  woods  as  you  do.    I  shall  call 

My  poet  now,  —  that  is,  if  he  insist,  — 

No  more  mere  Poet  but  Nemophilist.  — 

But  dusk  draws  on,  that  is  —  the  Elfins'  dawn, 

My  little  playmates'.    Now  their  dance  begins. 

Look  where  their  lanthorns  flit,  now  bright,  now 

wan.  — 
No  fireflies  they,  but  tripping  Faerylcins. 


50      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

The  Night  puts  on  a  strange  disguise, 
A  mask  and  domino  of  flame, 
Through  which  I  see  her  stealthy  eyes 
Gaze  with  a  look  that  has  no  name: 
Before  me  seems  to  grow  her  dream, 
Taking  the  form  of  gleam  on  gleam. 

A  million  lights,  a  million  stars 

Of  twinkling  gold  with  emerald  blent, 

Between  the  woods  and  pasture  bars, 

Fashion  another  firmament, 

Of  faery  fire  and  elfin  flame, 

That  puts  the  heaven  above  to  shame. 

The  cedar  and  the  oak  are  hung 
With  will-o'-wisps  that  never  cease, 
And  dark  the  twinkling  fields  among 
They  loom  like  monster  Christmas  trees, 
Around  which,  glimmering,  glide  and  glance 
The  torches  of  a  goblin  dance. 

What  faery  fete  is  this  she  dreams, 
Old  Night  ?    What  revelry  of  damps 
And  dews  ?  in  which  her  darkness  gleams 
Pale- jewelled,  hung  with  pixy  lamps, 
That  work  illusions,  mysteries, 
Fantastic,  in  the  eye  that  sees. 

Each  moment  flames  a  fiery  sign 
From  blade  to  bush,  from  bush  to  tree ; 
A  web  of  lights,  a  flickering  line 
Of  stars  that  quiver  constantly; 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  51 

A  pulse  of  gold  that  beats  delight 
Within  the  viewless  veins  of  Night. 

Oh,  Puck-wild  raptures  of  the  dew, 

Oh,   Ariel  transports  of  the  dusk, 

Now  let  my  spirit  join  with  you 

And  dance  within  Night's  heart  of  musk, 

Until,  like  you,  it  come  to  know 

The  ouphen  wonders  there  that  glow. 

POET 

Join  you  the  Masque  of  Night,  but  I  must  go. 
I  am  not  worthy  of  such  confidence, 
Ignorant,  and  skeptic  often,  as  you  know, 
Of  many  things  for  which  my  mind 's  too  dense. 
My  gentle  Fool,  to  make  the  matter  plain, 
I  fear  I  'd  spoil  your  revel.    You  remain. 
My  heart  stays  with  you  by  this  forest  pool,  — 
That  better  part  of  me  men  call  the  fool. 

Now  whirling  flies,  whose  whine  is  like  a  sting, 
Bred  of  the  water,  where  at  noon  the  snake 
Rippled  or  wreathed,  no  longer  rage  and  sing, 
And  by  this  wood-pool  nothing  is  awake 
Except  the  moth  that,  like  a  flower's  ghost, 
Searches  the  shadows  for  a  dream  long  lost. 

There  in  the  dusk  strange  lights  define  them 
selves, 
Glimmer  on  glimmer  and  green  glow  on  glow, 


52      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Like  some  fantastic  revel  of  the  elves, 
The  fireflies  flit  their  torches  to  and  fro ; 
Twinkling  in  faery  fete,  a  drowsy  dance, 
The  pool  repeats  with  starry  necromance. 

Hark !  —  to  the  pool  is  given  a  voice ;  a  throat 
Of  raucous  music,  hoarsening  the  night ; 
Toad-tongued  it  jars  the  darkness  with  one  note, 
Making  the  silence  guttural  as  with  fright: 
And  now  the  oak  with  owlet  speech  replies, 
The  dark  rock  twitters  into  bat-winged  cries. 

And  now  the   wood  gives   answer:    fine   and 

sharp, 

Shrilling  an  insect  syllable  in  each  weed, 
Protesting  fiercely.     On  its  cricket-harp 
The  darkness  strums,  while,  like  insistent  seed, 
The  fireflies  sow  the  night  with  flame  on  flame, 
And  the  dark  whippoorwill  cries  wild  its  name. 

Now  all  the  east 's  aglow :   and,  pale  around, 
Is  pause.    And  now  a  rumor  shakes  the  trees  — 
A  wind  that  whispers  of  a  beauty  found, 
Immortal,  godlike,  veiled  in  mysteries : 
And  now,  upon  the  hilltop,  look !  —  the  moon, 
Diana-like,  breasting  the  woods  that  swoon. 

FOOL 

Again  the  whippoorwill 's  dark  Jceenings  fall: 
And  in  my  heart  they  echo  —  sad,  oh,  sad! 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  53 

In  my  fool  heart,  that  cries  for  things  it  had, 
When  it  was  young;   old  things  beyond  recall. 

An  old  house  on  a  lonely  hill ; 

An  apple-tree  before  its  door  — 

How  oft  I  watched  the  Springtime  spill 

Pale  petals  on  its  old,  worn  sill! 

And  through  faint  boughs  the  May  moon  pour 

Its  light  like  some  soft  spirit ! 

And,  oh,  how  wild  the  whippoorwill 

Would  call !  how  wildly  weird  and  shrill, 

By  that  gray  house  upon  the  hill, 

And  how  I  loved  to  hear  it ! 

The  tree  is  dead ;  the  house  is  gone ; 
The  old  house  by  the  apple-tree; 
The  whippoorwill  that  sang  till  dawn, 
Where  blossoms  pelted  lane  and  lawn, 
Will  sing  no  more  for  Spring  and  me, 
Dim  in  the  moonlight  swinging: 
But  still,  ah  me !  when  Spring  comes  on, 
Back  to  that  place  my  soul  is  drawn, 
Where,  glimmering  in  the  tree  long  gone, 
That  wild  bird  still  is  singing. 

POET 

When  fools  wax  sad  their  listeners  must  depart: 
For  Life  demands  of  fools  a  merry  heart.  — 
I  too  was  young  once,  and  have  memories  too. 
But,  ah,  the  little  sister ,  whom  I  knew! 


54      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Little  sister,  faery  sister,  you  whom  often  I  have 

heard ; 
You,  dim  kin  to  all  the  wildflowers  and  to  every 

wandering  bird; 
You,  wild  portion  of  all  beauty,  symbol  of  all 

greenwood  lore, 
Take  me  to  your  heart  and  hold  me  as  you  did 

in  days  of  yore. 

Little  sister,  elfin  sister,  let  me  feel  your  eyes 

again, 
IWhere  the  April  azure  sparkled  into  dreams  of 

sun  and  rain; 
In  whose  deeps,  as  in  high  heaven,  shot  with 

shadow  and  with  light, 
Glowed  the  look  of  far  Adventure  and  the  lure 

and  dare  of  Flight. 

Little  sister,  shadow  sister,  let  me  hear  your 

voice  once  more, 
With  the  music  of  the  genii  opening  an  Aladdin 

door; 
Where  the   call   of  every   yearning,   that   the 

human  heart  has  known, 
Took  me  to  its  breast  and  held  me,  made  my 

very  soul  its  own. 

Little  sister,  pixy  sister,  let  me  feel  again  your 
hands ; 

Let  their  touch  again  translate  me  to  those  far- 
off  Wonderlands: 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  55 

Lands  of  strange  unknown  allurements,  old  en 
chantments,  once  that  held, 

Drew  my  heart  with  faery  fancies  in  the  days 
when  youth  enspelled. 

Little  sister,  forest  sister,  you,  part  bird  and 

part  a  flower, 
Lead  me,  as  you  often  led  me  in  my  childhood, 

for  an  hour, 
Past  the  ranges  of  the  real,  into  lands  where 

love  allures, 
[Where  the  dreams  of  beauty  wander  with  the 

magic  that  endures. 

Little  sister,  wonder  sister,  ope  again  the  gates 

that  rose, 
Built  of  mystery  and  marvel,  in  the  walls  of 

Let  VSuppose ; 
Of  that  city  of  old  witchcraft,  towered  with 

Legend  of  all  time, 
Where  we  sat  with  Song  and  Story  and  with  all 

the  Sons  of  Ehyme. 

Little  sister,  elfin  sister,  take  me  back  into  those 
fields, 

Partly  sunset,  partly  morning,  where  the  war 
riors  ride  with  shields; 

Knightly  Dreams  of  fame  and  glory,  and  the 
Daughters  of  Desire, 

By  their  sides,  on  snow-white  palfreys,  wake  in 
them  the  battle-fire. 


56      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Little  sister,  faery  sister,  tell  me  whither  have 
you  gone? 

You,  who  whispered  me  in  darkness  and  ad 
dressed  me  in  the  dawn: 

You,  who  fostered  me  in  childhood,  told  me 
dreams  that  should  come  true  — 

Little  sister,  little  sister,  ah,  the  dreams  that 
went  with  you ! 

The  Poet  rises  and  departs.  The  Fool  sits  on 
the  mossy  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  elbows  on 
knees,  and  chin  in  palm.  He  appears  to 
be  listening  to  something  sibilant  in  earth 
and  air.  Suddenly  starting  to  his  feet  he 
gazes  knowingly  in  a  certain  direction. 
Then  smiling  furtively  to  himself  he  steals 
cautiously  forward,  and,  hollowing  a  hand 
to  his  mouth,  talks  mysteriously  to  the 
whispering  woods. 

So,  so !  my  Little  Sister,  we  will  play.  — 
Come  forth!  come  forth,  0  you  my  Poet  lost! 
I  know  the  tree  you  hide  in  all  the  day. 
Come  forth,  my  Little  Sister,  and  be  tossed.  — 
Come!  come!  my  Ladykin,  no  more  delay! 
Come  forth!  come  forth!  and  bring  along  with 

you 

Ariel  and  Puck,  and  all  your  playmates,  pray, 
And  those  lost  dreams  that  our  good  poet  knew. 
Come  forth,  my  Little  Sister,  come  and  play! 


THE   DRYADS 

A  ONE-ACT  LYRICAL  DRAMA  OF  ANCIENT 
GREECE 

SCENE:  A  deep  and  mighty  Forest  near  the  Vale  of 
Tempe  in  Thessaly. 

TIME:  Approaching  the  close  of  the  Tenth  Century, 
B.  c.,  the  day  when  through  permission  of  the  wood  god, 
Pan,  at  the  end  of  every  hundred  years,  the  Dryads  are 
released  from  their  tree  boles. 

A  syrinx  is  heard.  Then  a  murmur,  indistinct  at  first, 
but  gradually  growing  louder  and  clearer,  like  a  great 
wind  in  the  forest.  All  at  once,  shapes,  silvery  green 
and  golden  brown,  are  made  visible,  flowing  like  light 
from  the  hoary  trunks  of  the  trees. 

FIRST  DRYAD 

Again  the  cycle  rounds  its  years ! 

Again,  overhead  and  all  around 

The  night  that  clasped  my  beauty  clears  — 

My  limbs  are  free,  my  heart  unbound. 

SECOND  DRYAD 

O  beauty,  mothered  of  the  green 
And  gold  that  haunt  the  sacred  wood, 
Take  heart  once  more  and  run  between 
The  silence  and  the  solitude. 


58      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

A  THIRD  DRYAD  (far  off) 

Come,  where  the  moss  spreads  carpets  cool : 
The  fern  hangs  fold  on  emerald  fold! 
Come,  where  the  hyssop  banks  the  pool 
With  heaven;   poppies  nod  their  gold. 

A  FOURTH  DRYAD  (approaching) 

Bend  down,  O  boughs !  and  blow,  O  leaves ! 
And,  winds,  come  take  us  by  the  hair! 
Come,  dance  with  us,  where  nothing  grieves, 
And  with  our  wild  hearts  laugh  at  care ! 

FIRST  DRYAD 

As  in  a  pool  a  pebble  drops, 
The  clouds  let  down  a  little  breeze, 
And  round  the  forest's  circled  tops 
A  ripple  runs  like  breaking  seas. 

SECOND  DRYAD 

Oh,  let  it  lead  us,  guide  us,  to 
Our  heart's  desire  beyond  the  sun,  — 
The  Dreams,  Faun-like,  who  still  pursue 
Our  love,  and  ever  round  us  run. 

The  Dreams,  the  Fauns,  whom  no  man  sees, 
Only  our  eyes  that  watch  behind 
The  bark,  and  through  investing  trees 
Behold  what  haunts  the  wildwood's  mind.  .  . 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  59 

THIRD  DRYAD  (far  away) 

Hark,  how  the  cascade  calls  us  there ! 
Wild-tossing  locks  of  foam  and  moss  — 
Come,  let  us  trail  with  hers  our  hair, 
And  trip  her  Naiad  limbs  across ! 

FOURTH  DRYAD 

Now  arm  in  arm,  around  and  round, 
In  wildflower  cirques  of  pearl  and  blue, 
Dance  down  the  wind,  without  a  sound, 
And  wake  the  new  buds,  breaking  through. 

Then,  face  to  heaven,  light  as  air, 
Where  every  leaf  winks  wet  its  eye 
Of  dew,  that  starred  Dawn's  chilly  hair, 
Come  flit  in  glimmering  beauty  by. 

The  forms  of  the  Dryads,  who  have  been  circling 
and  murmuring  together  to  the  chanting  of 
the  four  voices,  suddenly  arrest  their  move 
ments,  and  lean  listening  intently  to  a 
sound  that  seems  to  rise  up  from  under 
ground. 

FIFTH  DRYAD 

But,  oh,  what  calls !  what  cry  intrudes  ? 
Whose  voice  is  that  ?  what  sound  of  moan  ? 

VOICE  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

It  is  the  deep  roots  of  the  woods 
Crying  for  freedom  like  your  own. 


60      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FIFTH  DRYAD 
Where  is  god  Pan  ? 

MANY  DRYADS  (near  and  far  away) 
O  Pan!  Pan!  Pan! 

VOICES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

Make  free  our  forms,  whose  twisted  hold 
Has  grasped  through  many  a  century's  spai 
The  mighty  forest,  dark  and  old. 

MANY  VOICES  (windily,  far  and  near) 
Pan!  Pan!  god  Pan! 

FIFTH  DRYAD  (beseechingly) 

Oh,  set  these  free ! 
Unloose  from  them  the  knotted  dark ! 
From  coiling  shapes  that  none  can  see, 
Like  us,  who  crouch  behind  the  bark! 

A  syrinx  is  heard,  bird-like,  approaching 
through  the  trees.  Then  a  voice,  seem 
ingly  that  of  Pan,  speaks. 

But  all  your  praying  is  in  vain! 
Again  on  you  the  ancient  doom 
Falls,  and  your  beauty  once  again 
Must  grow  into  a  living  tomb. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  61 

The  bird-like  syrinx  is  heard  again,  pensively, 
plaintively,  gradually  dying  away  in  the 
distance.  The  glimmering  forms  of  the 
Dryads  remain  frozen,  as  it  were,  beside  the 
trunks  of  their  respective  trees.  Unutter 
ably  sad  the  voice  that  first  announced  tri 
umphantly  their  freedom  now  pierces  the 
silence  of  the  listening  forest. 

FIRST  DEYAD 

Around  my  form  again  I  feel 
The  solid  darkness  close  and  creep !  — 
Farewell !  farewell !  till  Pan  unseal 
The  night  again  wherein  we  sleep. 

As  they  are  slowly  withdrawn  into  the  envelop 
ing  trunks  of  the  trees,  many  voices  are 
heard,  lyrically ;  finally  blending  more  and 
more  whisperingly  with  the  movements  of 
the  branches  and  the  leaves,  until,  more  and 
more  indistinct,  the  leafy  sound,  rising  and 
falling  at  regular  intervals,  is  hardly  dis 
tinguishable  from  the  wind  in  the  woods. 

A  VOICE 

If  you  hearken  and  heed  in  the  forest, 
When  the  wind  blows  soft  above, 
You  may  hear,  in  the  bending  branches, 
Our  wild  hearts  beat  with  love, 
And  our  airy  bodies  move. 


62      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

ECHO 

With  lights  of  green  and  gold, 
And  fragrance  manifold, 
They  mark  the  moss  and  mold. 

ANOTHER  VOICE 

As  we  glimmer  and  glide  and  glimmer, 
Dim-limbed  of  the  wind  and  sun, 
In  the  woods  an  old  enchantment, 
Like  a  drowsy  dream,  is  spun, 
A  dream  that  ?s  never  done. 

ECHO 

And  tender  as  the  blue 

Of  wildflowers  wet  with  dew 

Their  soft  eyes  gaze  at  you. 

A  FAR-OFF  VOICE 
And,  oh,  when  the  fountains  call  us 
Through  veils  of  the  foam  and  moss, 
How  we  dance  to  the  cascade's  music, 
And  trail  like  mist  across, 
With  rainbowed  hair  atoss! 

ECHO 

How  sweet,  where  waters  flow, 
And  fern  and  wildflower  grow, 
To  watch  them  come  and  go ! 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  63 

FIRST  VOICE 

But  ever  a  sound  of  sorrow 
Breaks  in  on  our  revery : 
The  sob  of  the  roots  of  the  forest, 
That  hold  to  heaven  each  tree.  .  .  . 
What  now  shall  set  them  free?  — 

ECHO 

Alas!  if  I  but  knew 

A  charm  that  would  undo ! 

But  lo!  a  prisoner  too 

Am  I !  am  I ! 

A  prisoner  too,  like  you, 

Until  I  die. 

Their  voices  fade  away  in  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
and  the  forest  is  slowly  darkening  when  the 
bushes  are  cautiously  parted  and  two  young 
Fauns  appear  in  the  circle  of  trees,  glim 
mering  into  dusk. 

FIRST  FAUN 
They  laughed  at  me. 

SECOND  FAUN 

They  scoffed  at  me. 
They  cried  me  fool.    They  called  me  fey. 


64      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FIRST  FAUN 

But  Pan  has  shut  each  in  her  tree, 
And  we  are  free  to  run  and  play. 

SECOND  FAUN 
How  old  they  are !  —  But  we  are  young. 

FIRST  FAUN 

No  matter!  we  are  wise  as  they. 
And  not  so  close  of  speech  and  tongue.  — 
Now,  brother,  tell  me :   Yesterday 
What  happened  you  beside  this  way. 

SECOND  FAUN 

It  was  among  these  very  woods, 
When  darkness  closed  the  wild  hills  in, 
And  with  a  swiftness,  that  eludes, 
The  spider-life  came  forth  to  spin: 
Between  a  mighty  tree  and  rock, 
Dim  in  a  ray  of  moonlight  thin, 
I  saw  Pan  sitting,  wild  of  lock, 
His  huge  hands  resting  on  his  chin, 
Where  crickets  made  a  drowsy  din. 

His  beard  poured  down  a  waterfall 
Before  him;   and  his  moss-like  hair 
Rolled  silence  round  him  like  a  wall 
Around  a  tower  brown  and  bare: 
His  tree-like  limbs,  that  spanned  the  stream, 


THE   COMMON  EARTH  65 

His  shoulders,  like  an  eagle's  lair, 
Loomed,  lichen-mottled:    and  the  gleam, 
Of  glowworms  streamed  into  the  air 
From  out  the  starlight  of  his  stare. 

His  body  bristled  thick  with  thorns 
And  awns  of  wild-oats,  like  a  hill ; 
And  like  the  toiling  of  the  Norns, 
His  strength,  though  quiet,  was  not  still. 
The  twisted  roots  that  were  his  feet, 
From  which  the  waters  ran  a  rill, 
Were  made  the  temporary  seat 
Of  voices  wild,  batrachian-shrill, 
That  all  the  darkness  seemed  to  fill. 

The  fingers  tangled  in  his  beard 
Were  knotted  like  the  boughs  of  trees ; 
And  on  them  gaunt  the  owl  appeared; 
The  nightingale  made  melodies: 
And  through  the  forest  evermore 
There  went  a  droning  as  of  bees  — 
The  calling  of  Pan's  heart,  that  poured 
Protection  on  the  least  of  these  — 
The  forest-life  that  clasped  his  knees. 

FIRST  FAUN 

'T  is  well.    And  I,  too,  yesterday 
Was  lucky.    Think  what  I  have  seen ! 

SECOND  FAUN 
What  was  it?    Come;   no  more  delay! 


66      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FIRST  FAUN 

But  in  what  favor  you  have  been ! 
In  Pan's  own  presence:  and  have  learned 
Of  Godhead's  self ;   no  go-between ! 
While  I  have  watched,  all  undiscerned, 
A  young  Leimoniad. 

SECOND  FAUN 

You  mean 

The  one  you  chased  here  o'er  the  green  ? 

FIRST  FAUN 

The    same.  —  Her   breasts   were    tipped   with 

coral : 

Her  mouth  and  cheeks  were  each  a  rose : 
Her  hair  was  golden-green,  like  sorrel 
That  into  starry  blossom  glows. 
As  some  slim  bough  the  south  wind  blows 
She  swayed  beside  the  bramble  thicket, 
Light-tilted  on  her  tiny  toes, 
Held  in  her  hand  a  shrilling  cricket. 

The  grace  of  wind ;   the  poise  of  dew ; 
The  wild  alertness  of  a  flower, 
Were  in  her  limbs  that  glanced  and  blew 
Through  blossoms  like  an  April  shower, 
That  fills  a  rainbow-rounded  hour. 
Before  her  danced  a  butterfly, 
Blue  as  the  petal  of  a  flower, 
Swayed  by  the  import  of  her  eye. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  67 

As  some  wild  plant  within  it  closes 
All  fragrance  that  its  bloom  reveals, 
Her  breathing  held  a  sense  of  roses, 
An  attar  such  as  rain  unseals. 
And  with  such  swiftness  as  one  feels 
When  breezes  sweep  one  way  the  clover, 
She  showed  the  wind  her  twinkling  heels 
And  tossing  locks  with  bees  a-hover. 

ISTot  mine  to  tell  you  where  she  went, 
Or  how  before  my  eyes  she  faded; 
How  for  a  moment  there  she  bent 
And  from  its  bud  a  bloom  unbraided; 
Or  how  the  forest  pool  she  waded, 
And  from  its  ooze  the  lily  lifted, 
Then  with  a  glance  the  young  bird  aided, 
Who  from  its  nest  in  fright  had  drifted. 

SECOND  FAUN 
But,  brother,  say,  did  you  not  follow  ? 

FIRST  FAUN 

Nay.    Like  a  mist  athwart  the  dawn 
She  gleamed  an  instant  in  the  hollow, 
Burned  into  beauty  and  was  gone. 

SECOND  FAUN 

Had  it  been  I,  as  1 7m  a  Faun ! 
I  ?d  caught  her  hair. 


68      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FIRST  FAUN 

Nay ;  none  might  capture 
That  nymph,  for  whom  each  flower  put  on 
Joy,  and  each  leaf  looked  love  and  rapture. 


SECOND  FAUN 

Look  where  the  crocus  and  amaracus, 
The  cistus,  cyclamen,  and  helichrys, 
Wave  their  sweet  fingers  sleepily  at  us  — 


FIRST  FAUN 
As  if  they  wished  to  fling  a  good-night  kiss. 

SECOND  FAUN 

Nay!    nay!    to    point   us    where    some   young 

Nymph    sleeps  — 
But  hark !  who  comes  ?  —  What  is  it  runs  and 


The  ferns  and  underbrush  to  the  right  of  them 
are  violently  agitated  and  a  young  Satyr 
leaps  out. 

SATYR 

Brothers,  have  you  beheld  her?  —  Passed  she 

here  ?  — 
Far  have  I  followed. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  69 

FIEST  FAUN 

No  one  passed  this  way. 

SECOND  FAUN 
What  was  she  like? 

SATYR 

The  dreamy  close  of  day, 
With  starlight  in  her  eyes,  and  love  and  fear. 

FIEST  FAUN 

Tell    us    about    her.  —  Have    you    done    her 

wrong  ?  — 
And  to  what  race  of  nymphs  does  she  belong? 

SATYR 

As  I  lay  on  a  rock  to-day 
And  watched  the  sunset  die  away, 
A  wood  mist  took  on  azure  form, 
And  gestured  with  a  windy  arm 
For  me  to  follow  through  the  gray 
Old  forest  to  some  place  of  charm, 
A  place  all  wild  with  foam  and  spray. 

And  there,  within  a  murmuring  dell, 
There  always  seemed  to  lie  a  spell: 
And,  underneath  a  hollow  stone, 
A  water-daemon  seemed  to  moan, 
Condemned  forever  there  to  dwell 


70      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  sob  in  sorrow:  wildly  blown 
Its  foaming  hair  about  me  fell. 

I  raised  the  rock  that  held  it  bound, 
And,  lo,  it  changed  into  a  sound, 
A  shape  of  music,  viewless  yet, 
Breathing  of  fern  and  violet: 
And  from  the  sound  a  form  unwound, 
A  silvery  thing,  that  twinkled  wet, 
A  rainbow  winding  her  around. 

She  on  my  eyelids  kissed  me  thrice, 

And  clasped  me  with  white  arms  of  ice; 

And  gazing  on  her,  light  as  loam 

My  heart  grew.  —  I  would  bear  her  home, 

This  Naiad  creature  with  wild  eyes, 

Born  of  the  flowers  and  the  foam, 

And  make  her  mine  in  other  wise. 

But  she  like  water  swung  and  swayed ; 
Then  like  a  ripple  tripped  the  glade, 
A  Limnad,  or  a  Naiad  thing, 
That  fluttered  now  a  rainbow  wing, 
And  now  a  prism'd  shine  and  shade, 
Weaving  a  cirque,  a  bubble  ring, 
Wherein  my  satyr  heart  was  laid. 

And  then,  as  softly  still  as  moss 

Greening  some  drowsy  rock  across, 

She  stole  beside  me :    and  I  felt 

Her  mouth  on  mine ;   her  breath,  that  smelt 


THE   COMMON  EARTH  71 

Of  fern  and  flower.  —  At  a  loss 

I  leapt  to  seize.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  melt 

And  vanish  with  wild  locks  atoss. 

And  in  her  place  —  I  rubbed  my  eyes  — 
I  saw  a  trailing  wood  mist  rise ; 
An  azure  form,  an  irised  gray, 
That  seemed  to  motion  me  the  way 
That  I  must  follow.    In  this  wise 
I  hither  came.     Now  tell  me  pray, 
Passed  she  this  way,  in  some  disguise? 

FIRST  FAUN 

ISTaught  saw  I  save  a  topaz  gleam 

Flit  through  these  glades,  a  sunset  beam. 

SATYR 
?T  was  she  I  know.    But  whither  fled  ? 

FIEST  FAUN 

I  know  not.     Haply  overhead, 

Where,  yonder,  falls  the  mountain  stream. 

SATYR 

Farewell.  —  Mayhap  ?t  is  as  you  said. 
There  I  perhaps  may  find  my  dream. 

He  departs,  leaping  lightly  into  the  shadows. 
The  Fauns  seat  themselves  at  the  foot  of 
a  gigantic  oak  tree,  and  stare  steadily  in 
the  direction  which  the  Satyr  has  taken. 


72      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Dusk  deepens.  A  pipe  is  heard,  far  off 
in  the  forest;  a  lyric  note  —  like  that  of 
a  nightingale. 


FIRST 
What  does  the  flute  say,  brother  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 

Dream,  dream,  dream. 

FIRST  FAUN 

Tell  me  the  dream  it  sings  to  you.    I  hear, 
But  I  am  tired  and  only  wish  to  sleep. 

SECOND  FAUN 

Sleep  then  ;   and  let  me  murmur  it  in  your  ear. 

Now  I  remember  :  it  was  but  last  year 

This  thing  befell  me.     Still  the  old  trees  keep 

A  record  of  that  happiness,  I  deem, 

And  this  dim  moment  brings  its  beauty  near. 

FIRST  FAUN 

Tell  me  of  that  lost  happiness.     Very  dear 
It  must  have  been,  since  now  it  sings  so  sweet. 
And  brings  the  wildflowers  crowding  to  your 
feet. 

SECOND  FAUN 

'T  was  in  this  selfsame  forest, 

When  Spring  walked  here  and  dreamed, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  73 

And  everywhere,  in  earth  and  air, 
The  God  of  Beauty  gleamed: 

?T  was  in  this  selfsame  forest, 
Lost  in  the  oldtime  hills, 
When  every  rock  the  ladysmock 
And  crocus  blossom  frills: 

'T  was  in  this  selfsame  forest, 
Beneath  a  flowering  thorn, 
I  saw  the  side  of  a  tree  divide 
And  a  dryad  presence  born. 

A  shape  of  emerald  shadow, 
The  sunlight  arrowed  through, 
Who  left  the  print  of  her  feet  in  mint 
And  windflowers  wet  with  dew. 

Her  hair  was  corn-ripe  amber, 

And  golden-long  as  moss, 

And  the  woodland  glanced  into  light  and  danced 

Whenever  she  made  it  toss. 

Her  eyes  were  mountain  azure, 
Star-sapphired,  ray  on  ray, 
And  wherever  they  fell  a  wildflower-bell 
Leapt  blue  beside  the  way. 

Her  mouth,  an  apple-blossom. 

Her  tongue,  a  rosy  bee; 

And  whenever  she  spoke  a  bird  awoke 

And  a  wing  beat  in  the  tree. 


74      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  I  was  fain  to  follow, 
Forever  and  a  day, 
And  make  her  mine  as  the  eglantine 
Makes  its  the  heart  of  May. 

And  oft  she  turned  with  laughter, 

And  oft  she  tossed  her  head ; 

And  I  followed  on  till  the  day  was  gone, 

And  the  sunset's  rose  burned  red. 

And  still  I  followed  after; 
And  still  she  fled  afar, 
Till  eve  was  done  and,  one  by  one, 
Night  bloomed  with  star  on  star. 

And  then  once  more  she  beckoned, 

And  wild  of  heart  drew  near, 

And  I  felt  her  breast  to  my  bosom  pressed, 

And  her  wild-fern  breath  in  ear. 

And  what  to  me  she  whispered, 
And  what  my  heart  replied, 
The  wild,  deep  soul  of  the  solitude 
Dreamed,  and  the  wind  in  the  ancient  wood 
Into  starry  being  sighed. 

FIRST  FAUN 

Silence.      The    reticent    stream   makes    not 

sound ; 
The  forest  sleeps  and  winds  are  hushed  around. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  75 

Slowly    the    moon,    like    some    bright    Oread, 

breasts, 

With  pearl-white  bosom  bared,  the  vasty  wood, 
And  a  pale  moment  on  the  mountain  rests, 
Startled,  astonished  at  the  solitude. 
Silence.     A  bird  stirs  in  the  nested  leaves, 
And  the  deep  bosom  of  the  forest  heaves. 

SECOND  FAUN 

Murmur,    Conspiracies  of  tempest  pass, 
Swaying  the  forest  as  deer  sweep  the  grass: 
^Eolian  raiment  rustles ;   and  dim  feet 
Of  darkness  dance,  anticipating  dreams 
That  die  before  fulfilment ;  whispers  meet 
And  syllabled  voices  of  the  hills  and  streams. 
Murmur.     The  Night  Wind  passes.  —  Hark ! 

again, 
Far  off,  the  caution  of  approaching  rain. 

They  stretch  themselves  at  the  foot  of  two 
gigantic  trees,  and  sleep.  Silence,  save  for 
that  indefinable  movement  which  is  ever 
perceptible  in  a  forest  no  matter  how  wind 
less  the  night  may  be.  It  is  as  if  invisible 
and  ministering  forces  were  assembling, 
above  and  below  the  earth,  to  perform  cer 
tain  duties,  the  fructifying  and  finishing  of 
fruit  and  flower  and  leaf.  The  moon  has 
risen  and  pours  her  pale  light  down  on  the 
recumbent  forms  of  the  Fauns.  All  is 


76      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

mystery  and  moonlight  and  shadow.  Dimly 
at  first,  and  seemingly  remote  as  lost  an 
tiquity,  a  voice  is  heard,  murmurous  with 
a  mighty  music,  to  which  another  voice, 
as  remote  and  majestic,  replies,  making  the 
forest-hush  melodious  with  meaning. 

AN  ANCIENT  OAK 

I  heard  a  voice  in  the  forest 

When  the  world  was  thrilled  with  morn; 

And  its  sound  was  the  sound  of  waking 

And  vision  a  moment  born: 

And  it  said  to  my  heart :  "  Behold  me !  — 

But  let  thy  Dryad  beware : 

For  I  am  she,  the  deity, 

Whose  beauty  wakes  despair." 

And  full  in  the  dawn  I  saw  her, 

As  Actseon  saw  of  old, 

The  perilous  virgin  presence, 

With  gaze  of  green  and  gold: 

As  Actseon  saw  I  saw  her, 

White-limbed  where  the  morning  wells,  — 

And  the  hound-like  sense  of  that  insolence 

Has  silenced  my  soul  with  spells. 

AN  ANCIENT  BEECH 

I  heard  a  voice  in  the  forest 
When  the  earth  was  hushed  with  eve; 
And  its  sound  was  the  sound  of  slumber 
And  dreams  that  none  perceive : 


THE   COMMON  EARTH  77 

And  it  called  to  my  soul :  "  Behold  me !  — 

But  let  one  look  suffice; 

For  I  am  she,  the  divinity, 

Whom  none  shall  gaze  on  twice." 

And  I  looked  as  looked  Endymion, 

And  saw  her  shimmering  there, 

With  limbs  of  pearl  and  mother-of-pearl, 

A  crescent  in  her  hair: 

As  Endymion  saw  I  saw  her,  — 

Like  the  moon  on  Tempers  streams,  — 

And  the  light  of  her  look  and  the  joy  I  took 

Have  blinded  my  heart  with  dreams. 

With  the  hushing  of  the  voices  of  the  trees,, 
myriad  insect  sounds  make  themselves 
audible,  'mid  which  is  heard  the  fine,  fibril 
pipings  of  a  syrinx;  and  suddenly,  in  a 
whirl  of  creatures  of  the  forest,  Pan,  blow 
ing  fiercely  on  his  pipes,  dances  down  the 
glade.  The  Fauns  stir  in  their  sleep;  rub 
bing  their  eyes  they  leap  to  their  feet  and 
follow  after  him.  Scene  closes. 


THE   COMMON   EARTH 


SOUNDS  of  children  at  their  play, 

Laughter  dropping  young  and  clear 

As  dew  from  out  the  flowers  of  May: 

Murmured  songs  and  wings  in  flight, 

When  Summer  takes  with  warmth  the  year 

Far  off  thunder,  never  near, 

Dreamy  with  a  strange  delight, 

Drowsy  with  a  thrill  of  fear, 

And  the  sound  of  rain  at  night  — 

All  are  pleasant  to  the  ear.  — 

Then  the  wood-bird's  plaintive  call 

Overhead  at  evenfall: 

Insects  singing  in  the  weeds 

When  the  dusk  is  blue  and  still, 

And  the  full  moon  breasts  the  hill 

Like  a  sylvan  from  her  rill; 

And  the  wind  among  the  reeds 

Whispers,  and  they  stir  and  fill 

Silence  with  a  glimmering  sound 

As  of  spirit  things  around, 

Twinkling  mist-like  o'er  the  meads, 

Spilling  earth  with  dewy  beads : 

Mellow  music  of  the  frog, 

Where  the  night  her  elf-lights  leads,  — 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  79 

Faeryland  and  dreams  ajog 

With  their  torches,  drums  and  reeds, 

Dancing  over  brook  and  bog: 

Or  where  waters,  bright  with  moon, 

Sigh  of  sleep  a  faery  tune, 

Dreamy  stir  of  boughs  of  June.  — 

These  are  pleasant  to  the  ear, 

Common  ear ; 

Things  the  Earth's  old  heart  holds  dear. 


The  face  of  one  we  love  near  by, 

And  friendship's  smile  to  which  we  cleave 

Through  life's  long  mutability, 

Are  pleasant  to  the  eye.  — 

Gold-flickerings  on  an  August  eve 

In  one  rose-cloud  the  day  may  leave, 

In  dominating  majesty, 

Constant  in  its  inconstancy, 

To  hold  the  sunset  and  one  star,  — 

A  lamp  a  sylphid  swings  afar 

In  caverns  dim  of  porphyry, 

Or  grottoes  pale  of  airy  pearl ;  — 

How  pleasant  to  the  eye !  — 

Cloud- Alps  whose  battlements  unfurl 

Heat-lightnings ;    and  along  which  fly 

The  colors  of  a  quiet  sky, 

That  lift  the  thought  to  things  on  high, 

Beyond  this  world  that  we  perceive; 

And  waken  in  the  heart  a  sigh, 


80      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

With  a  sweet  yearning  still  to  grieve ;  — 

Colors  in  a  quiet  sky ;  — 

Cascades  falling,  gleam  in  gleam, 

Where  the  forest  shadows  dream, 

And  the  wildflowers,  eye  to  eye, 

In  the  stream  gaze  slenderly: 

Firefly  glimmers,  amber-green, 

Over  swards  dim-elfed  with  dew,  — 

Links  that  torch  the  faery  queen 

On  her  bat-wing  through  the  blue, 

When  the  crescent  moon  hangs  new ;  — 

Or,  upon  a  winter's  night, 

Glancing  through  a  window-light, 

Seen  afar,  the  fire's  red  glow, 

Elf -like  dancing  on  the  snow, 

Leading  back  to  long-ago:  — 

All  are  pleasant  to  the  eye, 

Common  eye; 

Things  the  old  Earth  holds  us  by. 


m 

Childhood's  breath,  divine  with  health, 
And  heavenly  sweet  as  hydromel; 
Cheeks,  whose  roses  blush  in  stealth 
And  of  the  heart's  young  secret  tell: 
Rain-odors  blown  from  fields  of  hay, 
New-reaped  and  warm,  at  close  of  day: 
And  from  the  orchard,  near  the  well, 
Fruit-musk  of  ripeness  full  that  fell, 
With  muffled  thud,  through  heavy  boughs; 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  81 

And  honeyed  odors,  sweet-asway, 

Bee-clung  and  bruised,  beside  the  way,  — 

These  are  pleasant  to  the  smell : 

And  scents  that  sweeten  an  old  house, 

That  hugs  its  garden  to  its  heart, 

And  makes  itself  of  it  a  part, 

Inseparably;  the  ancient  spouse 

Of  rose  and  pink  and  hollyhock, 

And  many  a  spicy-smelling  stock, 

Round  which  the  moths  in  ermine  dart 

When  twilight  calls  them  forth,  and  eve's 

First  star  looks  trembling  through  the  leaves, 

And  up  the  lane  come  slow  the  cows, 

Tinkling  a  dim  and  mellow  bell, 

What  time  the  wood-smoke  tells  of  home, 

And  in  the  woods  the  leafy  loam 

Breathes  of  the  autumn  soon  to  come :  — 

These  are  pleasant  to  the  smell, 

Common  smell, 

Things  that  hold  us  like  a  spell. 

IV 

A  child's  soft  hair  beneath  the  hand, 

Through  which  the  heart  may  understand 

The  innocence  which  means  so  much 

To  all  we  've  longed  for  and  have  planned ;  — 

The  thoughts,  the  faery  fancies,  —  all 

That  keeps  our  hearts  in  childhood's  thrall, 

Subservient  to  and  glad  of  such. 

A  child's  soft  hair  beneath  the  hand  — 

How  pleasant  to  the  touch, 


82      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  intimate  with  love's  demand! 

Then  water-lilies,  plucked  from  cool 

Dark  depths  of  some  old  woodland  pool, 

Where  all  the  shadows  wild  remain, 

Unmoving,  dreaming  steadily, 

As  in  dark  eyes  a  mystery, 

Elusive  with  the  beautiful: 

These  are  pleasant ;   and  the  rain 

On  orchard  blossoms,  sweet  a-strain, 

Through  which,  when  Spring  comes  windily, 

One  seems  to  feel  he  clasps  her  there, 

Beauty,  the  hoiden,  wild  as  fair, 

Her  rose-leaf  lips  on  his  again, 

While  'thwart  his  face  blows  wet  her  hair :  — 

And  then,  when  dusk  has  dewed  the  heat, 

The  feel  of  grass  beneath  the  feet, 

As  when  in  childhood  brown  and  bare 

Along  the  summer  we  did  fare, 

Without  a  fear,  without  a  care :  — 

The  feel  of  grass !  —  How  young  and  sweet 

The  feel  of  grass  beneath  the  feet !  — 

Ah,  how  pleasant  to  the  touch, 

Common  touch! 

Things  of  earth  that  help  us  much. 


Water  from  a  mountain  spring 
Out  of  crystal  bubbling: 
Wells,  where  wild  the  ferns  are  laced, 
And  the  mountain  blossoms  cling  — 


THE  COMMON  EARTH 

Ah,  how  pleasant  to  the  taste! 

Dew  within  a  wildflower's  throat, 

Round  whose  bloom  the  wild  bees  sing, 

Hummingbirds  flash  out  and  float : 

Sweetness,  in  which  may  be  traced 

Spice  of  wildness,  tang  of  clove, 

Color  even,  interwove,  — 

These  are  pleasant  to  the  taste. 

Wine  and  pungence  of  the  grape, 

Crushed  with  purple  on  the  lips; 

And  such  sap  as  Summer  sips 

From  a  leaf-cup  or  a  flower, 

Or  the  berry  that  she  strips, 

Dewy  at  the  morning  hour, 

From  her  briar-tangled  bower ; 

These  are  pleasant  to  the  lips: 

Racy  ripeness;    drowsy  drips; 

Honey  of  the  bag  o?  the  bee; 

And  the  cool  acidity 

Of  the  sorrel :   tastes  that  teased 

Childhood's  palate;   sweet  and  sour; 

All  that  once  our  playtime  pleased: 

These  are  pleasant  to  the  taste, 

Common  taste, 

Things  where  earth  its  name  hath  traced. 


VI 

These  are  pleasures  that  to  life 

Bring  no  strife, 

But  content  and  quiet  days, 


84      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

In  God's  praise; 

Making  here,  in  many  ways, 

Something  even 

That  approaches  near  to  Heaven: 

These  be  common  to  all  life, 

Man  and  wife; 

Common  to  all  human  hearts,  — 

Hearts,  whose  tastes  are  clean  and  sane: 

Simple  joys,  that  still  obtain; 

That  comprise  within  their  parts 

Nothing  which  life  may  disdain; 

Simple  joys,  and  pleasures  plain, 

Common  to  all  human  hearts, 

Souls  that  know  no  modern  arts, 

Mad  desires  that  vex  the  brain, 

Futile,  volatile,  and  vain 

As  the  castles  built  in  Spain, 

Kingdoms  on  eidolon  charts.  .  .  . 

Things  that  help  the  human  heart,  — 

Common  heart,  — 

And  are  an  undying  part 

Of  the  life  that 's  clean  and  sane : 

Simple  life  and  quiet  heart  — 

God  be  thanked  that  such  remain! 


A   FAERY   BURIAL 

SCENE:  Midsummer  Night;  a  wooded  and  moonlit 
holloio  thro'  which  foams  and  falls  a  rooky  and  ferny 
stream. 

FIRST  FAERY 

BRING  the  firefly  for  to  light 
Lanterns  of  our  funeral  rite ; 
Swing  their  glimmer  to  and  fro 
So  that  Faeryland  may  know 
That  a  faerymaid  lies  low 

As  a  flower; 

One  who  tripped  it  but  ago 
Merrily,  oh,  merrily, 

Hour  on  hour, 

In  the  moonlight's  primrose  glow, 
On  the  hilltop,  on  the  lea, 

In  the  hollow, 

Light  of  heart  as  bird  or  bee : 
Who  no  more  on  hill  or  shore 
Now  shall  trip  it  merrily, 
In  the  starlight  and  the  moon 
To  the  cricket's  creaking  tune. 

Faeries,  follow! 

O-hey!     O-hey! 

Elf  and  fay, 

Come  away,  come  away! 
Follow,  faeries,  follow! 


86      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

SECOND  FAERY 

Bring  the  glowworm  with   its  torch 
For  to  light  our  funeral  march ; 
Bring  the  beetle  with  his  drone 
For  to  drowsily  intone 
Pixy  grief  and  pixy  moan: 

From  the  thicket 

Bring  the  cricket, 
Who  beneath  a  hollow  stone 
Maketh  sorrow  all  alone: 
Let  him  make  for  her  a  rhyme, 
To  which  all  our  thoughts  shall  chime, 

Sadly  chime, 

In  the  hollow; 
While  the  flowers  all  keep  time, 

Mournful  time.  — 

Faeries,  follow! 

Eglantine, 

And  Columbine, 

Troop  in  line ! 
Follow,  faeries,  follow! 

THIRD  FAERY 

Bring  the  harebell,  hollow  blue, 
Clappered  with  a  bead  of  dew; 
Bring  the  wild-bean  and  the  pea, 
Little  bells  of  fragrancy, 
Let  them  ring  a  melody ; 

Hang  them  o'er  us 
On  a  web  of  witchery ; 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  87 

They  her  requiem  shall  be ; 
Let  them  swing  there  solemnly, 

Solemnly ; 

Toll  in  chorus 
Dirges  for  her  lying  here, 

Lying  here, 

In  the  hollow ; 

Who  no  more  shall  lean  her  ear 
To  a  flower ;   there  to  hear 
Faery  music,  crystal  clear 
In  its  heart  of  honey-cheer. 
Bear  her  now  away  from  here 
On  a  petal  for  her  bier : 

Faeries,  follow! 

Larkspur,  Phlox, 

From  the  rocks 

Twinkle  down  with  loosened  locks !  — 
Follow,   faeries,   follow. 

FOURTH  FAERY 

Close  her  tiny  coffin  up, 
Fashioned  from  an  acorn-cup; 
Dig  her  grave  where  she  was  born 
Underneath  the  elfin  thorn.  — 
Ah,  that  fay  should  die  forlorn! 

Dawn  should  startle 
Her :  who  stopped  and  stayed  till  morn 
Gazing  on  a  mortal-born 
Youth,  whose  hair  was  gold  as  corn, 
Who  returned  her  love  with  scorn  — 


88      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Foolish  mortal! 
He,  too,  now  shall  die  forlorn. 

Love  forlorn.  — 
Would  that  she  had  turned  ere  day 

From  the  hollow ! 
Had  the  red  cock,  far  away, 
Crowed  to  warn  her,  then  a  ray 
Had  not  pierced  her  heart,  sweet  fay ! 
Cruel  morning  so  to  slay ! 

Faeries,  follow! 

Elf  and  sprite, 

Down  the  night, 
Follow,  faeries,  follow! 

ALL  FOUR  FAEKIES 

Let  the  hornet  and  the  bee 
Sent'nel  her  virginity : 
Let  the  wasp  and  dragonfly 
Guard  the  spot  where  she  doth  lie, 
Where  the  hollow  waters  sigh 
And  the  glimmering  winds  go  by, 
Bearing  wild  the  owlet's  cry.  — 
None  must  know  where  she  doth  lie, 
None  must  know  that  faeries  die !  — 

Leave  no  token 
Here  to  draw  a  human  eye : 
None  must  know  that  faeries  die.  — 

Leave  unbroken 
Cups  of  moss  and  ferns  and  flowers, 

Wilding  flowers, 

In  the  hollow; 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  89 

Naught  must  point  to  what  was  ours, 
Faerymaid  who  once  was  ours.  — 
Leave  her  now  to  moon  and  showers, 
That  shall  soon  transmute  her  powers.  .  .  . 

Come  away! 

Faeries,  follow! 

Come  away ! 

The  east  grows  gray !   — 
Leave  her  here  to  sleep  alway: 
Come  away !   't  is  break  of  day ! 
Follow,  faeries,  follow! 


TWO   FAERIES   AND   A   FLOWER 

SCENE:    A.  moonlit  forest  of  early  Spring. 

FIRST  FAERY 

HITHER,  sister,  lend  an  ear: 
What  is  this  which  now  I  hear 
In  this  wildflower,  frail  and  white, 
Glimmering  in  the  April  night : 
Is  ?t  a  dream  it  yields  unto  ?  — 
Or  the  kisses  of  the  dew  ? 

SECOND  FAERY 

You  a  Faery,  and  not  know 

What  a  flower  thinks !  —  Ho !  ho !  — 

That 's  the  ecstasy  it  feels 

At  the  beauty  it  reveals: 

'T  is  the  thought  within  its  heart, 

Of  its  buds  and  blooms  a  part. 

FIRST  FAERY 

Sister,  sweetheart,  tell  me  now  — 

What  is  this  within  the  bough  ? 

Cautiously  it  feels  its  way 

As  if  fearful  to  betray 

Some  old  secret  ?  —  Is  it  mind, 

Working  in  the  darkness  blind? 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  91 

SECOND  FAERY 

Brother,  you  should  know  this  thing: 
JT  is  the  sense  of  blossoming : 
'T  is  the  beauty  there  awaiting, 
And  within  its  self  debating 
When  to  push  forth  sap  and  scent, 
And  again  be  evident. 

FIRST  FAERY 

Sister,  tell  me:   Do  you  know 
What  is  this  that  moves  below 
In  the  earth  ?  —  What  gropes  and  feels 
Like  a  blind- worm,  mole  at  heels?  — 
Is  ?t  an  ant  that  digs  its  home, 
Laboring  under  clay  and  loam  ? 

SECOND  FAERY 

Brother,  you  should  know  this  sound !  — 
?T  is  the  seed  beneath  the  ground ; 
Acorn  splitting  through  its  husk, 
Busy  in  the  under  dusk, 
Thrusting  down  its  coil  of  root, 
And  uptwisting  green  its  shoot. 

FIRST  FAERY 

Sister,  here 's  a  cobweb  thing, 
Fine  as  moonlight.    Let  us  swing.  — 
Listen !  —  Are  we  near  a  nest  ?  — 
What  was  that  I  heard  or  guessed  ? 


92      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

What  keeps  singing  ?  —  Can  it  be 
Some  wild  bird  I  cannot  see  ? 

SECOND  FAERY 

Brother,  you  have  ears  and  eyes, 
Yet  you  are  not  over  wise.  — 
What  you  hear  now,  —  listen  well,  — 
Is  a  bird  within  its  shell 
Taking  form:   beneath  its  wings 
'T  is  its  heart  you  hear  that  sings. 

FIRST  FAERY 

Sister,  see !   there  goes  a  snail : 
On  that  fern  it  leaves  a  trail 
Silver  gray.  —  Come ;    get  astride : 
Down  this  cobweb  let  us  slide.  — 
Tell  me,  sweetheart,  is  it  true, 
Mortals  oft  come  here  to  woo  ? 

SECOND  FAERY 

Brother,  once,  —  oh,  long  ago !  — 
Here  I  saw  them  walking  slow: 
One  a  man  and  one  a  maid. 
There  was  starlight  in  the  glade. 
Long  I  listened  in  the  fern. 
But  of  them  could  nothing  learn. 

FIRST  FAERY 

Did  he  kiss  her  ?    Did  she  sigh  ? 
Or  did  they  go  silent  by  ?  — 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  93 

Were  their  faces  pale  with  bliss  ?  — 
Human  love  they  say  7s  like  this : 
Very  sweet  and  sad  and  strange, 
Far  beyond  our  faery  range. 

SECOND  FAERY 

You  have  said  it :    They  seemed  sad, 
Happy  too.    A  something  had 
Entered  in  their  lives  denied 
To  the  faery-life  that  spied. 
Oh,  how  greatly  did  my  heart 
Envy  them  love's  human  part ! 

FIRST  FAERY 

Since  you  saw  those  lovers  you 
Have  become  quite  different  too. 

SECOND  FAERY 

Sad  and  wise  ?  —  It  well  may  be : 
?T  is  the  soulless  part  in  me, 
That  keeps  crying  night  and  day, 
"  Would  that  I  were  not  a  fay!  " 

FIRST  FAERY 
Do  you  love  me  ? 

SECOND  FAERY 
Ah,  you  know. 


94      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

FIRST  FAERY 

When  I  kiss  you  thus  and  so, 
Sweetheart,  are  you  sad  or  glad  ? 

SECOND  FAERY 
.Very  glad.  —  But  they  were  sad. 

FIRST  FAERY 

That 's  because  they  're  mortal-born.  .  .  . 
Come  away !    Let  ?s  dance  till  morn. 


WOODS  AND  WATERS 


On  a  Headland 

WHITE  sails  and  sunlight  on  a  sapphire  sea, 
Whence,  rank  on  rank,  the  battling  billows  come 
In  emerald  onslaught,  plume  on  flying  plume, 
Trampling  the  shore  with  epic  ecstasy. 
This  is  God's  poem,  that,  with  mystery 
And  marvel  of  music,  strikes  man's  spirit  dumb, 
Addressing  it,  in  voices  of  the  foam, 
With  thoughts  and  dreams  of  immortality. 
Long  have  I  stood  upon  this  rock,  that  brows 
Old  Ocean's  azure,  and  within  its  deep 
Beheld  God's  image,  and  divined  such  awe 
As  one,  admitted  to  his  Father's  house, 
Feels,  when  from  innermost  chambers  to'ards 

him  sweep 
The  solemn  splendors  of  invested  Law. 


ii 
The  Forest 

Ghost-flower  and  mushroom,  fungus  many  hued, 
Dot  dim  mosaics  under  pine  and  birch, 
That  column  huge  this  dim,  mysterious  church, 


96      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Aisled  and  clerestoried,  which  men  call  a  wood. 
There !  —  Is  't  the  shadow  of  a  dream  pursued  ? 
Or  deer  that  passes  ?  —  What  is  yonder  smirch 
Against  the  sunlight  ?  —  Raven  on  its  perch  ? 
Or  cowled  doubt  addressing  solitude  ?  — 
A  brooklet,  brown  as  Autumn,  in  its  flow 
Murmurs  a  prayer,  as  pilgrims  might  at  march ; 
And  when  the  wind,  with  sibilant  silence  shod, 
Lifts  up  its  voice  in  organ  worship,  lo, 
Yon  woodland  vista,  with  its  sunset  arch, 
Seems  a  vast  casement  glorifying  God. 


in 
The  Mill-Stream 

The  cardinal-flower,  in  the  sun's  broad  beam, 

With  sudden  scarlet  takes  you  by  surprise, 

Its  fiery  star  arresting  heart  and  eyes, 

Like  some  strange  spell  beside  this  forest  stream. 

The  wood  around  is  shadowy  as  a  dream 

Of  witchcraft,  filled  with  unrealities :  — 

You  ?d  hardly  start  if  from  those  ferns  should 

rise 

A  satyr  something  with  faun  eyes  agleam. 
And  on  the  rocks  the  sound  of  drowsy  foam 
Is  like  a  voice  of  Legend,  half  asleep, 
Crooning  a  tale  of  vague  antiquity; 
And  with  the  sound  you  almost  feel  that  some 
Strange  thing  will  hap,  —  a  hamadryad  leap 
Between  the  boughs,  Pan-hunted  to  the  sea. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  97 

IV 

The  Old  Saw-Mill 

Brown  as  a  cairngorm,   rimmed  with  golden 

woods, 

The  clear  brook  glasses  in  an  oval  pond, 
Pouring  confusion  thence  where  great  blooms 

blond 

The  glimmering  marge  in  weedy  multitudes. 
Here  where  its  ruin  o'er  the  tumult  broods, 
Moss-sunk  and  crumbling  in  a  stony  bond, 
ISTo  more  its  toiling  wheels  and  saw  respond 
To  the  swift  water's  urge  whose  sound  intrudes. 
Here  in  the  night,  among  the  rocks  and  slime, 
So  dark  the  stream,  so  lost  in  utter  gloom, 
One  could  imagine  that  this  skeleton  form 
Still  kept  a  memory  of  some  perished  crime, 
And  saw  forever  down  its  roaring  flume 
A  wild  face  whirling  in  the  rushing  storm. 


Swamp-Led 

The  old  trees  weep  with  mist ;  the  pitcher-plant, 
Thrusting  its  crimson  blossom  from  a  whorl 
Of  purple-veined  cups,  that  drip  and  curl, 
Leers  like  a  lip  in  dreams  of  old  romant. 
And,  like  the  hair  of  some  drowned  girl,  aslant 
The  wild  grass  trails  its  darkness  in  a  swirl 
Of  long  lagoon,  wherethro',  a  sorry  pearl, 
The  aster  glim  liners,  death's  last  ministrant. 


98      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

You  almost  fear  to  tread  the  swollen  moss, 
That  shags  the  rocks  and  pads  the  humps  of 

trees, 

Lest,  yawning  suddenly,  a  pit  of  death 
Suck  down  the  instant  feet,  to  slide  across 
A  form  of  ooze,  with  hands  of  slime  that  seize, 
And,  dragging  slowly,  clutch  away  the  breath. 

VI 

The  Swamp 

Hummocks  and  hags  of  moss  and  writhen  roots, 
Fantastic  forms,  —  the  twisted  torture-tools 
Of  demon  Nature,  —  who,  amid  gaunt  stools 
Of  fungus,  squats  shrilling  her  insect  flutes. 
Above,  at  dusk,  the  staring  screech-owl  hoots; 
The  blue  wisp  wanders;  and  among  dim  pools 
The  horn'd  moon  searches  where  the  darkness 

drools 

Toad-throated  mockery  that  the  distance  mutes. 
The  bladderwort  and  pitcher-flower  bloat 
Strange  blossoms  here,  fat-rooted  in  the  ooze; 
And  all  the  trees,  that  seem  to  await  a  sound, 
Lean  stealthily  over,  watching  yonder  boat, 
Half -sunken  there,  fearful  of  what  may  use 
Its  rotting  oar  when  night  comes,  hushed,  pro 
found. 

VTI 

The  Place  of  Pools 

Here,  though  bluff  weeds  their  mauves  and  pur 
ples  flaunt, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  99 

And  daylight  spreads  glad  gold  on  grass  and 

moss, 

Is  something  sinister,  the  soul 's  at  loss 
To  understand  or  see  as  is  its  wont: 
Morosely  old,  a  something,  grim  and  gaunt, 
Stalks  there  invisible,  as  stalks  across 
A  ruin  of  legend,  with  gray  hair  atoss, 
Vague  Superstition,  making  it  his  haunt. 
Above  the  sombre  pools  the  gypsy  Fall 
Leans,   wild  of  look.  ...  Is   that  a  crimson 

bough, 

Staining  the  water  ?  or  a  blur  of  blood  ? 
That,  as  a  mind  a  memory  may  recall, 
The  place  reshapes  within  itself  somehow, 
Pointing  a  crime  long  buried  in  the  flood. 

VIII 

Vespertime 

The  barberry  reddens  in  the  lanes;   the  vine 
Hangs  a  red  banner  where  the  wood-brook  rills ; 
The  cricket  in  the  dropping  orchard  shrills, 
Piping  the  starry  asters  into  line. 
The  hoarse  crow  calls,  winging  from  pine  to 

pine, 

That  lift  their  columns  on  a  hundred  hills, 
And  sentinel  the  sea  whose  emerald  stills 
Its  heart's  unrest,  drinking  the  sunset's  wine. 
Afar  one  sail,  touched  with  the  flame  that  flies, 
Glimmers  and  fades ;  and  in  its  place  a  mist 
Puts  forth  an  arm  embracing  sea  and  shore: 


100      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  over  ocean,  where  the  long  light  dies, 
The  harvest-moon  orbs  in  the  amethyst, 
Like  some  huge  pearl  round  in  a  shell's  blue 
core. 

IX 

Flower  Pageant 

The  orange  and  amber  of  the  marigold, 
The  terra-cottas  of  the  zinnia  flowers, 
With  which  the  season  every  garden  dowers, 
Light  up  their  lamps  of  Autumn  as  of  old. 
The  salvia,  flashing  scarlet  manifold, 
And  aster,  that  its  flame-like  flowers  showers, 
Seem  bonfires  builded  to  keep  warm  the  Hours, 
Who   huddle   round   them   murmuring   of  the 

cold. 

Along  the  roads,  in  torques  of  gold,  parades 
The  Summer's  pageant;  every  bloom  a  torch 
Borne  in  September's  train,  whose  funeral  goes 
With    pomp   of   purple   down   these   woodland 

glades, 

Where  Melancholy  sits  beneath  the  larch 
Crumbling  the  crimson  of  the  last  late  rose. 


The  Wind  from  the  Sea 

Mother  of  storm,  all  night  it  wailed  and  wept 
Outside  the  window;  or,  with  wrath  and  roar, 
Beat  with  wild  hands  of  terror  at  the  door, 


THE  COMMON  EARTJ3 

Till  on  the  hearth  the  frightened  fire  leapt, 

And  from  the  sea  a  moaning  answer  swept, 

As  if  the  ghosts  of  all  the  dead  it  bore 

Cried  out  in  lamentation  to  the  shore, 

That  with  its  crags  and  pines  grim  council  kept. 

But  with  the  coming  of  the  rose  of  dawn 

Its  clamor  ceased;   and,  mid  the  flowers  and 

trees, 

It  sighing  went;   or,  leaning,  soft  of  tone 
Whispered  of  beauty,  till  the  soul  was  drawn, 
As  by  a  ghost  in  drowsy  draperies, 
Back,  back  to  memories  of  the  long-agone. 

XI 

Sea  Lure 

Deep  down  I  see  her  on  a  coral  throne, 
Or  in  an  emerald  grotto,  arched  with  foam, 
Combing  green  tresses  with  a  rainbow  comb, 
The  kraken  by  her,  watching,  still  as  stone. 
Oft  have  I  seen  her  in  the  ocean's  moan 
Busy  with  shells  beneath  a  nautilus  dome; 
Or  scattering  pearls  to  lure  the  fishes  home, 
A  mermaid  form  no  man  shall  make  his  own. 
Now  like  a  siren,  on  some  island  hoar, 
Naked  she  sings  of  loves  and  lotus  lands, 
And  men  who  hear  leave  sweethearts  and  their 

wives ; 

And  now,  a  witch,  from  some  Utopian  shore, 
Beckoning,  she  calls,  rich  treasure  in  her  hands, 
And  to  the  quest  men  blindly  give  their  lives. 


102    THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 
XII 

Ocean  Mists 

All  day  the  mists  crept  stealthily  from  sea,  — 
A  silent  army  of  invading  white, 
That  planted  glimmering  banners  on  the  height, 
And  blotted  out  each  rock  and  hill  and  tree : 
Far  as  the  eye  could  see,  mysteriously, 
Wild  tents  arose;    it  seemed  that  all  the  coasts 
Of  all  the  world  had  sent  their  specter  hosts 
To  'siege  the  land  which  Autumn  held  in  fee. 
The  landscape,  hanging  a  disconsolate  head,  — 
Tears  and  dejection  in  its  attitude,  — 
Dripped,  mourning  for  the  Summer  that  was 

gone; 
While  through  the  garden,  where  the  flowers 

lay  dead, 

A  phantom  moved,  of  melancholy  mood,  — 
Trailing  the  ghost  of  beauty,  dead  at  dawn. 

XIII 

A  Forest  Place 

Like  some  sad  room,  devoted  to  the  dead, 
Dim  with  the  dust  of  love-begotten  hours, 
Where  dull  decay  sits,  and  gray  memory  lowers, 
And  sorrow  stands  beside  death's  ancient  bed: 
Where  dark,  above,  the  filmy  form  of  dread 
Spins  webs;  and  in  a  dusty  corner  cowers 
Love's  fragrant  dream,  among  forgotten  flowers, 
With  broken  lute,  and  bowed  unhappy  head : 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  103 

So  seems  the  Year  in  this  old  forest  place, 
Among  Fall's  tarnished  purples  and  torn  golds : 
The  dedicated  loveliness  of  woe 
Brooding  forever  on  Joy's  perished  face, 
The  happiness  that  passed,  where  none  beholds, 
.With  Youth  and  Spring  into  the  Long- Ago. 

Manchester-by-the-Sea,  Mass., 
September,  1911. 


A   PATH  TO   THE   WOODS 

ITS  friendship  and  its  carelessness 

Did  lead  me  many  a  mile, 

Through  goat's-rue,  with  its  dim  caress, 

And  pink  and  pearl-white  smile; 

Through  crowfoot,  with  its  golden  lure, 

And  promise  of  far  things, 

And  sorrel  with  its  glance  demure 

And  wide-eyed  wonderings. 

It  led  me  with  its  innocence, 

As  childhood  leads  the  wise, 

With  elbows  here  of  tattered  fence, 

And  blue  of  wildflower  eyes; 

With  whispers  low  of  leafy  speech, 

And  brook-sweet  utterance; 

With  bird-like  words  of  oak  and  beech, 

And  whistlings  clear  as  Pan's. 

It  led  me  with  its  childlike  charm, 

As  candor  leads  desire, 

Now  with  a  clasp  of  blossomy  arm, 

A  butterfly  kiss  of  fire; 

Now  with  a  toss  of  tousled  gold, 

A  barefoot  sound  of  green, 

A  breath  of  musk,  of  mossy  mold, 

With  vague  allurements  keen. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  105 

It  led  me  with  remembered  things 
Into  an  oldtime  vale, 
Peopled  with  faery  glimmerings, 
And  flower-like  fancies  pale ; 
Where  fungous  forms  stood,  gold  and  gray, 
Each  in  its  mushroom  gown, 
And,  roofed  with  red,  glimpsed  far  away, 
A  little  toadstool  town- 
It  led  me  with  an  idle  ease, 
A  vagabond  look  and  air, 
A  sense  of  ragged  arms  and  knees 
In  weeds  grown  everywhere ; 
It  led  me,  as  a  gypsy  leads, 
To  dingles  no  one  knows, 
With  beauty  burred  with  thorny  seeds, 
And  tangled  wild  with  rose. 

It  led  me  as  simplicity 

Leads  age  and  its  demands, 

With  bee-beat  of  its  ecstasy, 

And  berry-stained  touch  of  hands; 

With  round  revealments,  puff-ball  white, 

Through  rents  of  weedy  brown, 

And  petaled  movements  of  delight 

In  roseleaf  limb  and  gown. 

It  led  me  on  and  on  and  on, 
Beyond  the  Far  Away, 
Into  a  world  long  dead  and  gone,  — 
The  world  of  Yesterday: 


106   THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

A  faery  world  of  memory, 
Old  with  its  hills  and  streams, 
Wherein  the  child  I  used  to  be 
Still  wanders  with  his  dreams. 


THE   DREAMS   OF   SUMMER 

Now  drowsy  Summer  takes  the  world 

And  rocks  it  in  her  arms, 
A  poppy  flower,  it  seems,  soft  curled 

Upon  her  breast  that  warms. 
Among  the  fields  with  Indolence, 

In  gypsy  gown  of  ragged  gold, 
She  walks ;  or  by  some  tangled  fence 

Sits  with  the  Dreams  of  old. 

Upstarting  when,  in  rebel  red, 

The  Sunset  pitches  camp 
On  uplands  of  the  heaven  overhead, 

She  lights  her  signal  lamp, 
The  moon,  she  swings  so  all  may  see 

The  twilight  way  which  she  must  take, 
Putting  to  bed  the  bird  and  bee, 

And  life  in  field  and  brake. 

When  Night  leads  from  the  folded  hills 

Its  clan  of  gypsy  dreams, 
Upon  her  cricket-flute  she  shrills, 

And  scatters  glowworm  gleams; 
Then  slips  the  moon-moth  from  its  weed 

On  pearl-orbed  wings  of  seal  and  tan, 
And  calls  the  wild  Stealth  forth  to  feed 

That  lives  in  fear  of  man. 


108      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

She  drives  the  warm  winds  through  the  trees, 

And  thuds  the  earth  with  fruit; 
The  tumbled  ripeness,  no  one  sees, 

Smells  bruised  beneath  the  foot: 
She  herds  the  sky's  cloud-fleeces  white 

On  acres  of  the  star-flowered  blue, 
And  sows  the  dusk  with  firefly-light, 

And  plants  it  with  the  dew. 

Dim  in  the  East,  when  stars  grow  wan, 

On  housewife  knees  she  kneels, 
And  blows  the  hearthfire  ash  of  dawn 

Which  red  her  face  reveals : 
And  then  down-lying,  morning's  rose 

Stuck  in  a  cloud  of  tawny  locks, 
She  dozes  in  the  garden  close 

Among  the  hollyhocks. 

Falls  fast  asleep;    then,  half  aware, 

Beside  the  sleepy  stream, 
Stoops,  and  her  hot  face  in  its  hair 

Startles  her  like  a  dream: 
And  pale  with  fear  she  turns  away, 

And  to  her  hounds,  the  wood-winds,  calls, 
Who,  mad  with  haste,  set  all  asway, 

Where  swift  her  shadow  falls. 

And  from  the  hills  on  lightning  feet 
Her  whippers-in,  the  thunders,  race, 

While  through  a  veil  of  rain  and  heat 
Earth  shows  a  frightened  face : 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  109 

Till  deep  within  the  cloud-walled  West 
Eve  lights  a  witch's  windowpane, 

Where  shapes,  in  gold  and  scarlet  dressed, 
Show  where  she  dreams  again. 


HARVESTING 


IT  's  —  Hey,  for  the  dell,  oh !  when  harvest  is 

yellow, 
And  orchards  hang  mellow  and  appled  each 

tree: 
It 's  —  Leave  the  ripe  acres,  the  reapers  and 

rakers, 

And  all  the  haymakers  and  wander  with  me, 
O  girl,  like  a  poppy  full  blown  for  the  bee! 
With  cheeks  like  brown  berries, 
And  lips  like  wild  cherries, 
And  beauty,  I  swear  it,  far  sweeter  to  see 
Than   Summer  in  blossom,  deep  Summer  in 

blossom, 

With  clover-sweet  bosom  and  heart  of  a  bee.  — 
It 's  —  Hey,  for  the  dell,  oh !  and  tryst  by  the 

tree. 

ii 

And  what  will  they  think,  oh!  when  sunset  is 

pink,  oh! 

And  little  stars  wink,  oh !  like  buds  in  the  blue  ? 
When  into  the  gloaming  we  two  go  a-roaming, 
Like  birds  that  are  homing,  when  fireflies  are 

few, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  111 

O  girl,  like  a  wildrose  full  blown  for  the  dew: 
With  hair  like  the  twilight's, 
And  eyes  like  dusk's  high  lights, 
And  body  a  garden  that  Love  wanders  through, 
A  garden  of  roses,  moon-lilies  and  roses, 
Whose  beauty  uncloses  to  kiss  of  the  dew.  — 
Ah,  what  will  they  think,  oh !  those  stars  in  the 
blue? 


SABBATH 


T 


ALL  is  repose, 
Where  swaths  of  summer,   laid  in  hay-sweet 

rows, 

Make  musk  the  fields  through  which  the  path 
way  goes 

Unto  a  woodland- wall  where  cedars  dream, 
And  roses  shred  their  petals,  one  by  one : 
Where,  slumbrous  silver,  leaps  a  little  stream, 

Making  a  murmurous  glimmer  in  the  sun, 
And  on  a  log,  a  slender  streak  of  gray 

Against  the  noon,  a  small  green  heron  stands, 
Moveless  as  meditation.  —  Far  away 

Dreams  seem  to  camp  among  the  meadow- 
lands.  — 

Rest  rules  the  day. 

ii 

Night  comes  to  woo, 

Mid  heaps  of  clovered  fragrance,  cool  with  dew, 
And  fields  of  flowers  a  gateway  leads  into, 
Under  the  shadow  of  great  chestnut  trees 
Where    moonlight    waits,    a    presence,    that 
awakes 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  113 

Cricket  and  katydid  and  sleeping  breeze, 
And    shakes    the    attar    from    the    wildrose 

brakes : 
And  now  the  darkness  opens  many  an  eye 

Of  firefly  gold;    and  gowns  herself  in  white, 
Far-following  veils  of  mist ;   and  with  a  sigh, 
Voluptuous-drawn,  resigns  her  to  delight.  — 
Love  rules  the  night. 


DESERTED 

THE  old  house  leans  upon  a  tree 
Like  some  old  man  upon  a  staff: 

The  night  wind  in  its  ancient  porch 
Sounds  like  a  hollow  laugh. 

The  heaven  is  wrapped  in  flying  clouds, 
As  grandeur  cloaks  itself  in  gray : 

The  starlight  flitting  in  and  out, 
Glints  like  a  lanthorn  ray. 

The  dark  is  full  of  whispers.    Now 

A  fox-hound  howls :  and,  through  the  night, 

Like  some  old  ghost  from  out  its  grave, 
The  moon  comes,  misty  white. 


THE  WOOD   STREAM 

As  night  drew  on,  around  the  quiet  stream 
The  wildflower  heads  leaned  closer,   and  the 

trees 

Muttered  a  little,  as  if  half  in  dream; 
And  through  the  wood,  trailing  sweet  robes,  a 

breeze,  — 

Like  some  dim  elfin  gathering  perfume,  — 
Faltered  a  moment  ere  it  sank  in  gloom. 

Then  all  was  still  —  except  that  one  small  stone 
Protested,  whimpering,  in  the  water's  way; 
Petulant,  resistant,  where  the  cascade  shone, 
Wrapping  its  tumult  in  a  gown  of  spray, 
Like  some  pale  mother  who  would  put  to  rest 
Her  child,   a  starbeam  brooching   her   bright 
breast. 

More  careful  of  the  nest  upon  its  arm, 

That  hugged  the  wild-bird,  seemed  each  bush 

and  tree: 

And  in  its  heart,  securing  it  from  harm, 
Each  wildflower  seemed  to  clasp  more  close  its 

bee: 

And  even  Earth  with  more  protection  seemed 
To  hide  the  things  that  in  her  bosom  dreamed. 


116      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Save  for  the  stream,  to  which  the  hush  gave 

heed, 
And  little  winds  that  sighed  and,  whispering, 

rose, 
And  donned  their  rustling  robes  with  infant 

speed, 

Tiptoe,  regardful  of  the  wood's  repose, 
The  night  was  still.  —  And  then,  as  if  aware 
That  all  was  ready,  radiance  filled  the  air. 

Godiva-like,  the  moon  rode  into  sight, 
Cautious,  yet  confident  that  no  one  sees; 
The  naked  moon,  astonishing  the  night, 
Brightening  the  thoroughfares  of  all  the  trees: 
Holding  her  course  unfaltering  and  sure, 
Knowing  herself  as  beautiful  as  pure. 


WORM   AND    FLY 

UNSEEN"  the  lizard,  in  reptilian  night, 
Evolves  the  hole  wherein  are  placed  its  eggs, 
Small,  yolky  oblongs  of  membraneous  white, 
Seed-like  that  put  forth  legs. 

Beneath  the  stone,  that  lies  where  long  it  fell, 
The  pale  grub  sleeps  until  the  Summer  sings, 
Then,  blindly  groping,  splits  its  locust  shell 
And  whirls  rejoicing  wings. 

Upon  the  oak  bough,  swelling  with  the  sap, 
The  gray-green  gall  rounds,   like  a  wart,   its 

sphere, 

Wherein  the  woodfly's  whining  sting  shall  tap, 
And  bore  its  thin  way  clear. 

I  stand  and  wonder,  pausing  mid  the  trees, 
And  question  what  they  purpose  —  worm  and 

%;. 

Unbeautiful;    and  made,  it  seems,  to  tease, 
And  weary  ear  and  eye. 

Does  Nature  blunder  into  forms  ?    Does  she 
Count   these    as    true    expressions,  —  fly    and 
worm? 


118      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  Man  ?  —  perhaps  her  one  mistake  is  he  — 
Slow-toiling  out  his  term. 

Hag-lights  and  fox-fire  and  the  wisp  that  flies  — 
Are    they    not    parts    too    of    great    Nature's 

scheme  ?  — 
'T  is  flame  that  shows  where  buried  treasure 

lies, 
And  night,  that  makes  it  gleam. 


THE   OLD   BAYOU 

THE  rosy  egret,  Sunset, 

Wings  up  the  moss-gray  skies; 
And  creeping  under  clouds,  the  Dusk, 

A  burning  beetle,  dies. 
Hound  cypress,  oak,  and  willow 

A  raucous  music  cries, 
And  from  the  water,  dark  beneath, 

The  mist's  white  shadows  rise. 
And  glimmering  down  the  bayou, 

With  starlight-twinkling  eyes, 
The  Twilight  oars  her  blue  canoe 

Pale-prowed  with  fireflies. 
Her  owlet  call  the  Darkness 

Utters  in  vague  surmise; 
Then  with  a  sibilant  voice  afar 

The  bayou  Hush  replies. 
Now  Night  the  cricket  hinges 

Of  her  old  doorway  tries, 
And  stealing  through  the  House  of  Dreams 

Sleep  to  the  silence  sighs. 
Wide  to  the  dark  one  window 

She  flings,  and  from  it  flies 
A   moth  —  the   round,    white,    wandering 
Moon, 

.Whose  ghostly  image  lies 


120   THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Upon  the  bayou's  bosom 

In  strangely  shimmering  wise  — 
A  phantom  barque  with  a  phantom  maid, 
a  phantom  paddle  plies. 


BUTTERFLIES 

FKEEBOOTERS  of  the  sunlight,  blue  and  black, 
Glimmering  with  gold  you  go  your  velvet  ways 
From  flower  to  flower,  from  weed  to  weed,  and 

back, 

Demanding  toll  of  all  the  honeyed  days, 
Nature  accommodating  all  your  needs, 
As  once  she  did  when  with  unaltered  face 
She  fed  the  worm  as  now  the  fly  she  feeds. 

The  worm !  how  long  since  you  forgot  the  worm 
Unsightly  that  you  were  ?  the  chrysalis 
Your  life  endured;  the  dark,  prenatal  term 
Of  your  existence,  wherein  naught  of  bliss 
Or  beauty  was.  —  Now  out  of  night  returned, 
Pinioned  and  plumed,  your  life  is  one  long  kiss 
On    Summer's    languid    lips    for    which    you 
yearned. 

This  was  your  hope  in  darkness,  where  your 

dreams 

Were  all  of  wings  and  rainbows,  manifold, 
Which  transformation  touched  and  changed  to 

gleams, 

Materializing  their  ethereal  gold, 
That  burst  your  prison  house  and  rose  to  range 
With  joy,  forgetting  all  the  life  of  old; 
The  new  accepted  as  if  nothing  strange. 


122      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Go  your  glad  ways  of  fragrance  and  of  light, 
Following  the  dream,  forevermore  that  lures, 
Beyond  the  shadow  of  immortal  night 
That  holds  the  soul :  the  dream,  through  which 

endures 

Hope  which  hath  led  the  world  for  centuries,  — 
The  hope  within  the  heart  which  still  assures 
The  soul  of  many  immortalities. 


DRAGONFLIES 

You,  who  put  off  the  water-worm,  to  rise, 
Reborn,  with  wings ;   who  change,  without  ado, 
Your  larval  bodies  to  invade  our  skies, 
What  Merlin  magic  disenchanted  you, 
And  made  you  beautiful  for  mortal  eyes  ? 

Shuttles  of  summer,  where  the  lilies  sway 
Their    languid    leaves    and    sleepy    pods    and 

flowers, 

Weaving  your  colored  threads  into  the  day, 
Knitting  with  light  the  tapestry  of  hours, 
You  come  and  go  in  needle-like  array. 

Now  on  a  blade  of  grass,  or  pod,  as  still 
As  some  thin  shred  of  heaven,  motionless, 
A  point,  an  azure  streak,  you  poise,  until 
You  seem  a  figment  Summer  would  express 
But  fails  through  utter  indolence  of  will. 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  the  air  had  news, 
And  flashed  intelligence  of  faery  things, 
You  vibrate  into  motion,  instant  hues, 
Searching  the  sunlight  with  diaphanous  wings, 
Gathering  together  many  filmy  clues. 


124      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Clues,  that  the  subject  mind,  in  part,  divines, 
Invisible  but  evidenced  through  these :  — 
The  mote,  that  goldens  down  the  sun's  long  lines, 
The  web,  that  trails  its  silver  to  the  breeze, 
And  the  slow  musk  some  fragile  flower  untwines. 

Could  we  but  follow !  and  the  threads  unwind, 
Haply  through  them  again  we  might  perceive 
That  Land  of  Faery,  youth  left  far  behind, 
Lost  in  the  wonder-world  of  Make-Believe, 
Where    Childhood    dwells    and    Happiness-of- 
Mind. 

And,  undelayed,  far,  far  beyond  this  field 
And  quiet  water,  on  the  dream-road  trail, 
Come  on  that  realm  of  fancy,  soul-concealed, 
Where  we  should  find,  as  in  the  faery  tale, 
The  cap  through  which  all  Elfland  is  revealed. 


A  WILDFLOWER 

How  may  my  art  proclaim  thee  ? 
Or  half  thy  grace  express  ? 
What  word  is  there  to  name  thee 
And  all  thy  loveliness  ? 
Thou,  who  beside  me  swayest, 
Within  this  woodland  old, 
Too  much  to  me  thou  sayest 
With  thy  dim  blue  and  gold. 

Beside  this  mossed  rock  growing, 
Where  wild  bees  dream  and  drone, 
Thy  delicate  shadow  throwing 
Upon  the  gray-green  stone ; 
Of  something  thou  remindest, 
Some  far  thing  of  the  soul, 
A  look  when  love  was  kindest, 
A  touch  that  did  console. 

The  bird  above  may  know  it, 

So  pensively  it  sings, 

But  never  priest  or  poet,  — 

The  thought  that  with  thee  springs. 

Part  of  the  heart's  elation 

Is  what  thou  dost  express, 

That  shrinks  from  ostentation, 

And  merely  loveliness. 


126      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Ah,  could  my  words  define  it, 
Or  lend  that  thought  a  name, 
Then  all  men  might  divine  it, 
And  thou  wert  sure  of  fame. 
But  words  speak  nothing  clearly ; 
And  men  who  read  may  say  — 
Oh,  ?t  was  a  wildflower  merely 
He  found  beside  the  way. 


THE   GHOST   FLOWER 

(THE  INDIAN  PIPE) 

WHAT  freak  of  faery,  fancy  of  the  night, 
Compelled  you  hither,  drowsy  with  the  dew  ? 
Taking  my  heart  with  weirdness,  like  the  flight 
Of  moth  or  owlet  through  the  noonday  blue, 
O  flower  of  phantoms,  —  slender  as  a  light 
That  flits  at  haunted  casements,  pale  of  hue,  — 

A  finger  white 
Lifting,  mysterious,  on  the  startled  view. 

Decay  and  dampness  mothered  you,  while  death 
Sat  by  and  glowered  under  threatening  skies, 
Breathing  you  full  of  his  autumnal  breath, 
Staring  you  white  with  winter  of  his  eyes: 
O  type  of  everything  which  perisheth, 
Corruption  hidden  'neath  a  fair  disguise, 

Whose  Beauty  saith, 
"  Behold  a  symbol  for  the  worldly  wise." 

O  flower  of  death,  so  like,  yet  not  a  flower ! 
0  form  of  fungus,  are  you  kin  to  those  ? 
Did  God  conceive  you  in  some  lonely  hour, 
Uncertain  yet  of  what  He  did  propose  ? 
A  half -formed  thought,    abandoned;     without 
dow&r 


128   THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Of  fragrance ;  whence  grew  out  the  perfect  rose 

Of  Eden's  bower,  — 
Whose  counterpart  in  every  garden  grows. 

A  semblance  merely,  flung  forgotten  here, 
Eidolon-like,  disclaimed  of  all  your  kin, 
Pointing  a  phantom  finger  at  the  Year, 
Or  with  a  twisted  hand,  as  white  as  Sin, 
Clutching  at  silence,  who  a  hollow  ear 
Leans  to  the  earth  on  which  the  rain  beats  thin, 

While  shapes  of  fear 
And  shadows  wander,  dream-wise,  out  and  in. 

Dreams  from  the  world  of  gnomes,  where  mys 
teries  dwell, 

You  conjure  forth :  —  I  seem  to  see  them  stand, 
Fantastic  round  you:  up  and  down  the  dell 
Their  vague  enchantments  move,  pale  hand  in 

hand.  — 

Would  that  I  too  such  magic  could  compel, 
And,  so  admitted  of  Night's  Erl-King  band, 

Could  break  the  spell 
That  bars  the  gateway  into  Elfinland. 


AUTUMN   STORM 

TOPPING  the  hills  the  oaks, 
Black  on  the  sunset's  fire, 
Draw,  with  terrific  strokes, 
Gates  as  it  were  of  Tyre, 
Burning;  while,  like  a  page 
Out  of  some  tragedy, 
Heaven  grows  dark  with  rage, 
Pregnant  with  things  to  be. 

Out  of  the  North  the  Wind 
Gallops  with  all  his  hordes, 
Hun-like,  and  gaunt  and  blind, 
Swooping  the  Earth  with  swords : 
Night,  on  her  tower  of  cloud, 
Lets  her  wild  beacon  flare; 
Then,  through  the  darkness  loud, 
Arrows  rain  everywhere. 

Wrapped  in  their  mantles  wide, 
Cloaks  of  the  mist  that  stream, 
Onward  the  Hours  ride, 
Forward  with  never  a  gleam: 
On  through  the  forest,  on, 
Over  wild  hill  and  plain, 
All  the  long  night  till  dawn 
Trample  the  troops  of  rain. 


"I    HEAR    THE    WOODLANDS 
CALLING  " 

I  HEAR  the  woodlands  calling,  and  their  red  is 

like  the  blare 

Of  trumpets  in  the  air, 
Where   rebel    Autumn    plants    her    tents    and 

crowns  her  gypsy  hair. 

I  hear  her  beauty  calling  glad,  with  crimson 

and  with  gold, 

As  oft  it  called  of  old; 
And  I  must  forth  and  greet  her  there  and  clasp 

her  close  and  hold. 

As  yesterday,  again  to-day,  my  heart  will  run 

to  her, 

The  gypsy  wanderer, 
Through  scarlet  of  the  berry-pod  and  purple  of 

the  burr. 

The  vines  that  vision  forth  her  cheeks  shall  tell 

me  where  she  lies, 

Soft  gazing  at  the  skies ; 
And  I  will  steal  upon  her  dreams  and  look  into 

her  eyes. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  131 

The  sumach'  that  repeats  her  lips  shall  tell  me 

where  she  smiles, 

Who  still  my  heart  beguiles, 
And  I  will  speak  her  face  to  face  and  lounge 

with  her  for  miles. 

A  riot  and  a  tangle  there,  a  blur  of  gold  and 

gray; 

She  surely  went  this  way  — 
Or,  so  it  seems,  the  maples  cry,  the  cloudy  asters 

say. 

Oh,  I  must  up  and  strike  the  trail,  that  often 

I  have  gone, 

At  sunset  and  at  dawn, 
Where  all  the  beauty  of  the  world  puts  all  her 

splendor  on. 

I  hear  her  bugles  on  the  hills ;  I  see  her  banners 

blowing, 

And  all  her  campfires  glowing,  — 
The  campfires  of  her  dreams,  —  and  I  —  I  must 

be  up  and  going. 


DOLOROUS   NIGHT 

ALL  night  long  I  heard  it  raining, 

And  the  trees 

To  the  flowers,  still  remaining, 

Kept  complaining 

Without  cease. 

All  night  long  I  heard  a  weeping 

As  of  grief, 

While  the  autumn  wind  kept  sweeping 

Branch  and  leaf. 

All  the  night  I  heard  a  crying.  — 

Was  it  rain  ?  — 

Or  a  sorrow  trailing,  flying, 

Dimly  sighing 

At  my  pane? 

All  the  night  I  heard  a  beating 

As  of  wings, 

And  a  voice  that  kept  repeating 

Many  things. 

At  my  window,  that  was  shuttered, 

Once  the  wind 

Tapped ;  —  or  was  't  a  leaf  that  fluttered, 

Darkly  muttered, 

At  my  blind  ?  — 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  133 

Was  it  Autumn  ?  —  Or,  unsheathing 
Black  his  blade, 

Death  ?  who  stood  there  darkly  breathing 
Where  Night  swayed. 

Was  't  the  ghost  of  some  departed 

Love,  long  lost? 

Driven  like  the  leaves  that  darted, 

Broken-hearted, 

Tempest-tossed  ?  — 

All  its  wild  hair  dripped  November, 

Dark  and  wet.  .  .  . 

What  it  wailed  the  woods  remember  — 

I  forget. 


THE    CALL   OF   THE   HEART 

OH,  my  heart  is  on  the  moorland,  on  the  old 

land,  on  the  poor  land, 
Where  it  hears  the  heather  calling  and  the  gorse 

shake  with  the  bee! 
Oh,  it  ?s  there  I  would  be  lying,  with  the  clouds 

above  me  flying, 
And  blue  beyond  the  blackthorn  tops  a  peep  of 

purple  sea. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  on  the  moorland,  on  the  old 

land,  on  the  shore  land, 
Where  the  gypsy-bands  of  dreams  pitch  camp, 

the  dark-eyed  Romany ! 
Oh,  it 's  there  I  would  be  dreaming,  with  the 

sunset  o'er  me  streaming, 
With  her  beside  my  campfire  there  whose  voice 

still  calls  to  me. 

With  her,  the  light-foot  maiden,  with  her  eyes 
so  vision-laden, 

That  little  sister  to  the  flowers,  and  cousin  to  the 
bee: 

Oh,  would  that  we  were  going  against  the  hill- 
wind's  blowing 

To  meet  the  playmates  that  she  knew,  that  child 
of  Faery. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  135 

Oh,   would  that  we  were  sitting  beneath  the 

wild-fowl's  flitting, 
Her  dark  eyes  looking  into  mine  as  stars  look  in 

the  sea, 
While,  dim  as  autumn  weather,  and  sweet  as 

scents  of  heather, 
Our  campfire  trails  its  smoke  of  dreams  like 

mists  along  the  lea. 

Oh,  heart,  there  on  the  moorland,  the  old  land, 
and  the  poor  land ! 

You  ?re  breaking  for  the  gypsy  love  you  never 
more  shall  see : 

The  little  light-foot  maiden,  the  girl  all  blossom- 
laden, 

Departed  with  her  people  and  the  dreams  that 
used  to  be. 


OLDTOWN 

HARNESS  up  the  old  horse ; 

Harness  up  the  shay: 
We  are  bound  for  Oldtown 

Many  miles  away. 
If  arrived  at  middle  night, 

In  the  wintry  weather, 
We  shall  find  the  old  folks 

Waiting  up  together. 

There  the  heart  is  home,  dear ; 

There  the  rooms  are  wide; 
Kafters  bright  with  firelight; 

Summer-sweet  inside. 
There,  though  backs  be  bowed  with  years, 

Forms  are  straight  in  seeming ; 
And  beneath  the  locks  of  age 

Youth's  deep  eyes  are  gleaming. 

There  the  dooryards  blossom 

With  the  oldtime  flowers ; 
Pansy,  pink  and  mignonette, 

Fair  as  childhood's  hours. 
Lamps  of  lost  Aladdin  days, 

There  the  morning-glories 
Hang ;  and  roses  grow  the  gold 

Of  old  faery  stories. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  137 

There  the  songs  we  loved  once, 

And  the  tales  we  told, 
Haunt  the  hearths  and  chambers 

With  the  words  of  old. 
There,  though  lips  be  sad  and  thin, 

Worn  with  toil  the  fingers, 
Kindness  keeps  them  beautiful 

With  a  love  that  lingers. 

Harness  up  the  old  horse ; 

Harness  up  the  shay: 
We  must  get  to  Oldtown 

Ere  the  close  of  day. 
If  the  road  be  long,  be  long, 

And  the  Inns  - —  not  any, 
In  the  town  is  rest,  my  dear, 

And  good  friends  a  many. 


THE   OLD   PLACE 

SASSAFBAS  grows  at  its  gate,  and  veins 

Of  lichen  mottle  its  stones  with,  stains ; 

And  there,  where  its  porch  hangs  low  in  view, 

High  on  its  beams  the  swallows  brood : 

Its  garden  blossoms,  all  poppy  strewed, 

With  oldtime  flowers  of  every  hue. 

The  old  spring  calls  where  the  hollow  drips 
And  still  invites  with  its  mossy  lips, 
Lullabyed  to  by  the  sleepy  pines, 
Within  whose  whisper  the  woodchuck  steals, 
And  along  whose  twilight  the  fox  reveals 
An  instant's  glimmer  when  noonday  shines. 

It  is  a  place  that  I  dream  of  oft : 

I  see  the  light  in  its  log-built  loft; 

The  wasps  that  plaster  their  cells  of  clay; 

The  weaving  spider;    and,  bubble-blue, 

The  sky,  that  sweeps  with  its  swallow  through 

Its  open  window,  high-heaped  with  hay. 

The  martins  circle  its  roof  in  flocks, 
And  twitter  its  chimneyed  martin-box; 
The  redbird  builds  in  the  trumpet-vine, 


THE   COMMON  EARTH  139 

A  living  crimson  that  flecks  the  trees, 
That  shade  the  shed  where  the  borer-bees 
Whine  at  their  holes  in  the  planks  of  pine. 

I  dream  of  the  way  that  takes  me  where 
The  creek  in  the  woods  has  made  a  stair, 
A  rock-stair,  roofed  with  the  boughs  of  beech; 
And  I  see  the  pool  where  the  minnow  shines, 
And  dragonflies  flash  their  jewelled  lines, 
And  pale  pond-lilies  loll  just  in  reach. 

And  barefoot  there,  in  torn  straw-hat, 
His  dog  beside  him,  where  oft  he  sat, 
I  see  a  boy  in  the  glimmering  day 
Dropping  an  idle  line:  may  be 
Floating  a  boat  of  the  bark  of  a  tree  — 
A  boy,  who  has  never  gone  away. 

The  boy,  who  haunts  that  oldtime  place, 
With  his  sun-tanned  feet  and  freckled  face; 
The  lad,  who  follows  at  dusk  the  cows, 
As  oft  and  oft  in  the  days  gone  by; 
The  boy,  brown-haired,  who  once  was  I, 
Who  lives  in  dreams  of  that  oldtime  house. 


THE    PATH   TO   YESTERDAY 

THERE  's  a  path  that  leads  to  Yesterday  —  you 

know  it; 

A  rambling  path  of  flowers  and  perfume  : 
You  remember  how  the  wild  grapes  overgrow  it 
To  the  house  upon  the  hilltop  deep  in  bloom. 

There  ?s  a  path  that  leads  to  Yesterday  through 

flowers, 

Where  the  veery  is  a  voice  of  wandering  song  ; 
Where  the  cricket   snaps  its  faery  whip  for 

hours, 
And  a  barefoot  boy  goes  whistling  all  day  long. 

There  ?s  a  path  that  leads  to  Yesterday  through 

dingles, 
Mossed  and  ferny,  where  the  wood  pool  is  an 


And  the  sunbeam  is  a  twinkle  there  that  mingles 
With  the  gladness  of  a  girl  that  dances  by. 

There  ?s    a    path    that    leads    to    Yesterday, 

a-glimmer 

With  the  pearl  and  purple  footsteps  of  the  Dusk  ; 
Where  the  first  star  leaps  and  flashes,  like  a 

swimmer, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  141 

On  the  violet  verge  of  twilight  washed  with 
musk. 

There  's  a,  path  that  leads  to  Yesterday  that  Js 

haunted 

With  the  shadows  of  old  memories  of  bliss, 
And  the  ghosts  of  loves  that  roamed  there  once, 

who  counted 
Every  moment  by  a  heart-beat  or  a  kiss. 

Hark  —  the  path  that  leads  to  Yesterday  is 

calling !  — 
Don't  you  hear  it?  how  it  calls  through  many 

things ! 

Through  its  roses,  like  the  memories  now  falling, 
And  the  dream-like  nestward  fluttering  of  wings. 

On  the  path:  that  leads  to  Yesterday  we  Ve 

started !  — 

Hear  it  calling  with  its  many  whippoorwills !  — 
Like  the  voices  of  old  Happiness  departed,  — 
Through  the  darkness,  where  the  moon  rests  on 

the  hills. 


AGE 

DUST  and  fatigue;    and  down  Life's  long  hot 

road 

Age  and  his  oxen,  groaning  with  their  load, 
Pass  creakingly:  the  ever-urging  goad 
Of  want  compelling  to  what  unknown  end  ? 
What  though  the  fields  around  be  ploughed  and 

sowed ; 

The  orchards  burdened  till  they  break  and  bend, 
Meagre  for  him  the  harvest  God  will  send, 
And  what  he  reaps  haply  he  may  not  spend. 

What  eyes  are  sadder  than  the  eyes  of  Age! 
That  have  but  labor  for  their  heritage, 
And  loneliness  and  loss  for  toil's  long  wage; 
That  by  the  rushlight  Faith  still  try  to  read 
Their  Book  of  Patience,  dimly,  page  by  page, 
But  find  no  comfort  there  that  helps  their  need, 
But  weariness  ever;  nothing  sweet  to  feed 
Heart's  hope  upon,  or  any  love  to  lead. 

I  often  think  that  if  God  could  behold 

The  sadness  here  of  all  Earth's  poor  and  old, 

He  would  not  sit  so  calm  as  we  are  told : 

If  He  could  hear  the  souls  that  pray  in  vain, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  143 

The  hearts  that  perish,  crying  in  the  cold, 
And  of  bereavement  all  the  wailing  train, 
His  hand  would  hush  the  archangelic  strain, 
And  Heaven  sit  bowed  with  pity  for  Earth's 
pain. 


DROUTH 

BESIDE  the  dried-up  streams  the  Summer  walks 
In  ragged  gray  and  tattered  green  and  gold, 
Dragging  her  slattern  feet  from  wood  to  wold, 
O'er  every  field  that  white  a  pathway  chalks: 
And  evermore  unto  herself  she  talks, 
In  insect  accents,  strident,  manifold, 
Stinging  the  heat  with  weariness  untold, 
Her  scrawny  voice  dry  as  the  wayside  stalks. 
Beside  the  pool,  where  late  she  leaned  and  saw 
Her  lily  bosom  bared  to  lure  the  bee, 
She  leans  again,  beholding  but  a  pod, 
A  withered  disc,  near  which  the  crow's  harsh 

caw 

Seems  but  the  echo  of  the  mockery 
In  her  own  heart,  that  laughs  at  Man  and  God. 


BESIDE   THE    ROAD 

WHO  lias  not  walked  with  loneliness, 
And  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  grief, 
Along  the  road  of  Heart's  Distress, 
Mourning  that  joy  is  brief  ? 

The  paths  appointed  us  to  take 
Are  not  the  ways  that  we  would  choose; 
The  guide-post  reading  "  Duty's  Sake  " 
Is  one  we  cannot  lose. 

But  they,  who  kneel  awhile  and  pray, 
Or  muse  with  Nature  upon  God, 
May  find,  beside  the  lonely  way, 
The  faery  goldenrod 

Of  hope,  whose  light  makes  bright  the  road, 
And  beautifies  the  lonely  hours, 
And  turns  the  sorrow  of  our  load 
To  thoughts,  like  shining  flowers. 


THE    HAIL   STORM 

ALONG  the  hill's  huge  back, 
Above  the  crouching  terror  of  the  plain, 
Tempest,  imperial,  crowned  with  blazing  black, 
Trails  far  the  thunderous  purple  of  his  train, 
Tattered  with  fringes  of  the  streaming  rain. 

Vast  forces  seem  at  council:  genie  shapes 
And  elementals  changing,  form  on  form ; 
"Now  from  the  swarm  one  awful  Deev  escapes, 
And  with  a  lightning  gesture  lifts  its  arm, 
Shouting  a  word  of  storm. 

And  all  the  earth  sits  cowering:  not  a  sound: 
The  forest's  shoulders  shudder,  swing  and  sway : 
Then,  like  some  monster  thing  that  quests 

around, 
The  Afrit  wind  leaps  on  the  driven  day, 

t/  / 

And  wrapped  in  rain  and  hail  rides  his  re 
sistless  way. 


CHAOS   AND   ORDER 

SHADOWS  ;  and  outposts  of  the  rebel  Night, 
And  muttered  whisperings  of  conspiracy: 
Deep  in  the  west  a  flicker  of  ominous  light, 
As  if  a  torch  had  signaled  suddenly ; 
Involving  heaven  and  earth  in  anarchy: 
Then,  high  above  the  world,  vast  wings  in  flight 
And  trumpet-thunder  of  Night's  empery.  — 
Chaos  and  Night,  —  form  upon  demon  form,  — 
Riding  the  exultation  of  the  storm. 

Glimmer;   and  rumors  of  confederate  Dawn: 

Aerial  tumult  as  of  sylphid  feet: 

Far  ranks  of  radiance,  on  the  peaks  withdrawn, 

Confronting  Darkness,  who,  in  wild  retreat, 

Flies  from  the  leveled  glory,  fiery  beat 

Of  swords  about  a  golden  gonfalon, 

And  sapphire  shields,   and  spears  of  blinding 

heat.  — 

Light,  and  its  ordered  cohorts,  ray  on  ray, 
And  the  fierce  phalanx  of  resistless  Day. 


THE   GRAY   LAND 

THE  crawfish  builds  its  oozy  chimneys  here 

Of  pallid  clay; 
The  shadowy  wood  around  is  sad  and  sere; 

The  sky  is  gray: 
The  mossy  waters  wearily  creep 
Dim  through  a  land  that  seems  asleep, 
Or  lost  in  old  remembering  deep 

Of  some  forgotten  day. 

The  ovals  of  the  acorns,  split  with  rain, 

That  sprout  and  spread, 

Splash  mud  and  moss  with  many  a  sinister 
stain, 

Faint  streaks  of  red : 
"No  sound  upon  the  hush  intrudes 
Except  the  drip  of  wet,  that  broods 
Like  some  old  crime  upon  the  woods, 

And  holds  them  grim  with  dread. 


SILK   O'   THE  WEED 

WHERE,  under  boughs  of  willow-gray, 
By  banks  the  blades  began  to  pierce, 
And  leaflets  pricked  up  pearly  ears 
To  hear  the  things  birds  had  to  say: 

I  saw  her  standing,  reticent 

As  Love  that  fears  to  be  denied, 

Shy,  wildflower-f aced  and  wildflower-eyed, 

Spring,  'mid  the  pods  the  wind  had  rent: 

Spring,  in  her  robe  of  cloud  and  sun, 
Wafting,  with  lips  of  redbud  blush, 
Into  the  air's  attentive  hush, 
Assurance  of  the  love  begun: 

White  kisses  for  the  trees  and  grass, 
They  streamed  in  promise  everywhere, 
And  with  them,  bright  with  blowing  hair, 
A  silken  breath,  I  saw  her  pass. 


THE   PLOUGHMAN 

THE  broken  soil,  made  damp  with  rain, 
Smells  good  along  the  bramble  lane. 
Broad  in  the  afternoon  the  fields, 
Conscious  of  every  seed  they  hold, 
Seem  thinking  of  the  harvest-yields, 
That  soon  will  turn  their  brown  to  gold. 

The  coultered  earth,  the  furrowed  loam, 
Dreams  of  the  coming  Harvest-Home : 
And,  dreaming,  breathes  of  unborn  hay, 
Of  briar  and  daisy,  wheat  and  weed, 
That  shall  bedeck  it  on  that  day 
When  men  shall  come  and  give  it  heed. 

And  he  who  guides  the  plunging  plough 
Across  the  soil's  dark  surface  now, 
What  dream  is  his  if  any  dream  ?  — 
Not  one  that  aims  at  loveliness, 
But  plenty  —  like  a  golden  stream  — 
To  make  his  need  and  toil  far  less. 

His  toil  and  need !  that  circumvent 

The  soul,  for  which  the  dream  was  meant, 

That  lifts  the  man  above  the  brute, 

And  frees  from  bonds  of  circumstance :  — 

But  it  is-  toil  that  gives  us  fruit, 

And  need  is  not  a  thing  of  chance. 


DUSK  AND  THE  WHIPPOORWILLS 

THE  wet  gold  of  the  rainy  dusk 

Dieci  over  woods  and  hills, 

When  through  the  May-time's  deeps  of  musk 

Cried  clear  the  whippoorwills. 

One  called  afar;    and  one,  loud-heard, 
Answered  quite  near  at  hand: 
Each  seemed  the  utterance  of  a  word 
My  heart  could  understand. 

'A  word  of  wonder  and  of  dream 
That  held  me  when  a  child ; 
With  charm  investing  every  stream, 
And  every  woodland  wild. 

That  led  me,  most  mysteriously, 
Down  haunted  forest  ways, 
With  magic  of  wild  melody, 
Back  to  the  old  hill-days: 

Unto  a  porch,  o'ergrown  with  rose, 
Where  still,  with  wondering  eyes, 
My  childhood  smiles  and  round  it  glows 
The  dream  that  never  dies. 


THE   TEMPEST 

LIKE  soldiers,  silent  in  the  last  redoubt, 

The  wildwoods  waited  as  the  storm  drew  out 

Its  cloudy  cohorts  with  a  mighty  shout. 

As  men,  who  face  destruction,  overhead 

I  heard  wild  voices  of  the  rain  that  said,  — 

"  It  is  the  forest-people !     Strike  them  dead !  " 

Then  followed  tossings  of  tempestuous  hair, 
And  movements  of  huge  bodies  everywhere, 
And  protestations,  as  of  wild  despair. 

A  moment's  silence ;  then  upon  the  world, 
The  charioteers  of  Tempest,  —  Winds,  —  were 

hurled, 
And  Thunder's  bellowing  banner  blew  unfurled. 


An  o-ak,  the  tower  of  two  centuries, 

Set  its  gigantic  shoulders  to  the  breeze, 

And  roared  down,  ruining,  on  enormous  knees. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  153 

Then  overhead  terrific  trumpets  blared: 

The  sky  swooped  downward  with  a  sword  that 
glared, 

And  the  long  ranks  of  rain  rushed,  hurricane- 
haired, 

Charging  the  world  with  spears  that  nothing 
spared. 


TWO    BIRDS 

BIRDS 

KISING  in  lyric  rings, 

There  is  a  bird  that  sings,  — 

"  Never,  heart,  never !  " 
Meaning,  —  From  higher  things 
Never  restrain  thy  wings; 

Mounting  forever, 

Dare  and  endeavor. 

Gazing  with  jewelled  eyes, 

There  is  a  bird  replies, 

"  Sweetest,  love,  sweetest !  " 

Meaning,  —  What  life  denies 

Love,  who  keeps  pure  and  wise, 
That  is  completest, 
Holds  what  is  fleetest. 

Old  as  the  heart  are  they, 
Birds  of  the  every  day, 

Older  than  sorrow.  — 
Oh,  may  they  sing  alway 
Down  in  the  hearts  that  pray, 

Helping  care  borrow 

Hope  of  to-morrow. 


IN   THE    DEEP    FOREST 

IN  the  deep  forest  when  the  lightning  played, 
Pallid  and  frail  a  wilding  flower  swayed, 
Lifting  its  blossom  from  the  streaming  sod, 
Trembling  and  fearful,  like  a  child  dismayed, 
Who  in  the  darkness  has  forgotten  God. 

In  the  deep  forest,  in  the  thunder's  roll, 
Pace  to  pale  face  I  met  with  my  own  soul; 
And  in  its  eyes  were  trouble  and  alarm, 
Like  that  which  held  the  heaven  from  pole  to 

pole, 
And  doubt  of  God  above  the  night  and  storm. 

In  the  deep  forest,  when  the  tempest  passed, 
The  flower  smiled  unbroken  of  the  blast ; 
And  in  the  forest,  as  the  day  drew  on, 
Hand  in  pale  hand,  with  sure  eyes  upward  cast, 
My  soul  and  I  stood  confident  of  dawn. 


PURSUIT 

WHERE  the  slender  stream  runs  rippling  through 
the  woods, 

Like  a  child  who  sings  and  dances  to  a  song, 

Towards  a  wildrose  lure  that  evermore  eludes, 
What  has  followed,  all  noon  long, 
The  murmur  of  a  throng,  — 

Faint  voices  of  the  flowers  that  call  in  count 
less  multitudes  ?  — 

Ah,  what,  but  that  dear  love  of  old  that  still 
is  sweet  and  strong! 

Where  the  shadowy  stream  trips  whispering  on 

the  rocks, 

Like  a  spirit  weaving  magic  in  a  dell, 
Towards  a  music,  at  the  heart  that  calls  and 

knocks, 

What  has  tried  to  read  or  spell 
Every  leafy  miracle, 
That  Nature  writes  within  her  book  of  wonders 

she  unlocks  ?  — 
Ah,  what,  but  dear  desires  of  old  and  dreams 

that  still  compel ! 

Where  the  little  stream  slips  downward  to  the 

pool, 
Like  a  joy  into  a  life  that  shuts  it  round, 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  157 

Where  the  grasses  crown  its  quiet,  deep  and 
cool, 

What  has  caught  the  soul  and  bound 
With  a  glimmer  and  a  sound 
And  charmed  it  in  a  place  apart  that  lights 

make  wonderful  ?  — 

Ah,  what,  but  oldtima  memories  that  here  again 
are  found! 


AFTER   DEATH 

THE  forest  stirred ;   and  then  a  bird 
Sang ;    and  its  song  enspelled 
The  silence  like  some  magic  word 
By  which  the  heart  7s  compelled. 

Among  the  woods,  with  interludes, 
Deep-hidden  in  the  green, 
It  sang  to  little  sisterhoods 
Of  wildflowers  dimly  seen. 

It  seemed  a  flute,  a  faery  flute, 

Of  one  whom  love  compels, 

Who  pleads,  Faun-like,  his  wildwood  suit 

In  plaintive  syllables. 

And  I,  who  heard  its  golden  word, 
Remembered  once  again 
How  long  ago  I  ?d  heard  the  bird 
.When  life  knew  less  of  pain. 

How  then  its  note  seemed  less  remote ; 
And,  in  mysterious  reach, 
Though  farther  than  a  dream  may  float, 
It  with  my  soul  held  speech. 


THE  COMMON  EARTH  159 

I  understood.    And  through  the  wood 
Its  song  went  like  a  gleam, 
Taking  with  love  the  solitude, 
The  human  heart  with  dream. 

It  passed  away  with  its  wild  lay : 
And  years  have  gone  since  then :  — 
I  heard  the  bird  again  to-day 
Within  the  selfsame  glen. 

In  like  event  it  came  and  went 
With  golden  melody: 
And,  mother,  oh,  the  things  it  meant 
To  the  sad  heart  in  me ! 


LIGHT 

THE  golden  chrysalis  of  dawn 

Breaks  through  its  heavenly  husk, 

And  winged  with  rose  floats  up  and  on 
Piercing  with  flame  the  dusk. 

Out  of  what  darkness  daybreak  brings 

Its  testament  of  gold, 
Inscribed  with  elemental  things 

That  God  hath  never  told. 

Ah,  Heaven!  how  good  it  is  to  live, 

One  with  abounding  day! 
To  be  no  longer  fugitive 

On  Life's  down-darkening  way! 

But,  part  and  portion  of  the  light, 

To  rise  again  re-born; 
Beyond  the  shadow  and  the  night, 

Anointed  of  the  Morn. 


THE    MOTHER 

MY  little  boy,  who  used  to  run 
With  glad  hair  blowing  in  the  sun, 

Where  runs  he  now? 

Where  runs  he  now  ?  — 
In  fairer  fields  than  these,  that  blow 
The  withered  blooms  of  long-ago, 
That  soon  shall  whiten  with  the  snow 

As  does  my  brow; 

As  does  my  brow. 

My  little  boy,  the  sweet  of  tongue, 

Who  leapt  and  laughed,  and  joyed  and  sung, 

Where  sings  he  now? 

Where  sings  he  now  ?  — 
In  some  bright  place  where  children  meet, 
And  lullabies  of  love  repeat, 
That  break  my  heart's  remembering  beat 

With  tears  somehow; 

With  tears  somehow. 

My  little  boy,  who  used  to  play 
With  happy  eyes  the  livelong  day, 

Where  plays  he  now? 

Where  plays  he  now  ?  — 


162      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

With  fairer  playthings  there  than  those 

That  broken  in  their  box  repose, 

As  in  my  breast  the  hopes,  God  knows, 

O'er  which  I  bow; 

O'er  which  I  bow. 

My  little  boy,  who  sat  to  hear 
The  wonder  tales  to  him  so  dear, 

Where  harks  he  now? 

Where  harks  he  now  ?  — 
Haply  in  that  fair  world  he  knew 
Of  faery  where  all  dreams  come  true 
As  here  on  earth  they  never  do, 

Alas !  somehow ; 

Alas!  somehow. 


OLD    "BUD"    RILEY 

"  Little  Boy  !  —  Halloo  !   halloo  I 
Can't  you  hear  me  calling  you?  — 
Little  Boy  that  Used  to  Be, 
Come  in  here  and  play  with  me !  " 

—  "BUD"  KlLEY. 

OVEK  the  rail-fence  of  the  years, 

That  climbs  and  crumbles  between  our  lands, 

Old  "  Bud  "  Kiley,  I  stretch  my  hands 

Full  of  my  love  and  all  that  endears, 

As  the  boy's  young  hands  that  once  you  knew, 

Filled  with  unfaltering  faith  in  you, 

And  love  and  laughter  and  smiles  and  tears. 

The  same  old  love  that  once  you  knew 

When  you  and  I  went  wandering  through 

Song's  flowery  fields,  with  never  a  frown, 

And   whistled    our    sweetheart,    freckled    and 

brown, 

Our  country  Muse,  in  homespun  gown, 
Who  smiled  on  you  and  on  me  again, 
As  we  tuned  our  pipes  in  the  sun  and  rain, 
Far  from  the  crowd  and  the  deafening  town, 
Out  in  the  woods  where  the  world  is  sane, 
Out  in  the  air  of  the  open  plain, 


164  THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

High    on    God's   hills   that   His   streams    run 

down  — 

Old  "  Bud  "  Riley,  her  heart  was  yours, 
7s  ...  though  my  love  for  her  endures; 
That  little  sweetheart,  who,  long,  oh,  long, 
Has  kept  you  a  boy  in  the  Land  o?  Song. 


THEY   SAY 

(To  G.) 

THEY  say  that  beauty  withers ; 

They  tell  me  flowers  die ; 
That  all  the  world  ?s  unreal, 

And  dreams,  like  days,  go  by : 
They  say  that  joy  is  mortal, 

And  nothing  here  is  sure : 
They  all  are  lies,  for,  in  your  eyes, 

I  find  that  these  endure. 

They  tell  me  glory  passes, 

That  life  is  but  a  breath; 
That  happiness  goes  like  the  rose, 

And  love  is  slain  of  death: 
They  say  that  hope  shall  perish, 

That  nothing  shall  arrive: 
I  scorn  the  whole,  for,  in  your  soul, 

I  see  how  these  survive. 


CHARACTER  AND   EPISODE 


FIREARMS 

CHARACTERS:   MRS.  HOUSTON 

GEORGIANA,  her  daughter 

A  FEDERAL  LIEUTENANT 

UNCLE   MOTE,    a   former   slave    of   the 

Houstons 
TIME:    1864 

SCENE:  Entrance  hall  of  Houston  House  in  the  State 
of  Kentucky.  Large  doorway,  center,  opening  on  a  pillared 
verandah,  visible  in  part  from  hall  through  large  window 
to  left  of  door.  Colonial  stairway  to  right,  a  door 
way  back  and  beyond  stairway  leading  to  dining-room, 
etc.  Another  doorway,  left,  leading  to  drawing-room. 
As  the  curtain  rises  enter  from  drawing-room  Mrs.  Hous 
ton,  Georgiana,  and  Uncle  Mote,  all  three  very  much 
agitated;  the  old  negro  gesticulating  and  explaining 
vehemently : 

MOTE  : 

Yass  'urn ;    Miss'  Sally,  dey  's  dun  f  otched 

'urn  all  — 

Tub  de  las7  boss ;   an'  ebery  pig  and  keow  — 
Dey  neber  lef '  us  one  ob  all  dat  berd. 
Ut  's  a-gwine  to  break  dis  bere  ole  nigger's 

beart : 

Ut 's  almos'  broke  ut  now,  indeed  ut  has. 
Ole  Bess  wuz  de  las'  —  de  las'  keow ;  sbe  's  de 

las'  — 
De  las'  ob  twenty  bead.  —  Hit  ain't  no  use ! 


170      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

But  Ah  c'u'd  swaar  an'  swaar,  an'  jus'  cut 

loose 
An',  an7  —  kill  a  pa'cel  o'  Yankeemen ;    Ah 

c'u'd; 
If  Ah  jus'  had  a  gun !  —  Gimme  a  gun,  Miss 

Sally! 

Gimme  a  gun,  er  pistul  —  anythin'  — 
An'  —  an'  —  Ah  'ull  show  'urn. 

MRS.  HOUSTON  (greatly  distressed)  : 

Cows  and  horses  gone ! 

Oh,  what  shall  we  do,  Georgiana,  what  shall 
we  do? 

GEORGIANA  (desperately)  : 

I  wish  there  were  a  gun  about  the  place 
I  >d  bushwhack  them  —  at  least  1 7d  get  re 
venge 
On  one  or  two.    A  pistol  'd  do. 

MOTE  (eagerly)  : 

Yass'um.    Dat'shit! 

4 

GEORGIANA  : 

They're  bad  as  Sherman's  men.     Insulting 

hounds ! — 
Robbers  of  women ! 

MRS.  HOUSTON: 

Thieves !    hateful    thieves    and    bandits !  — 
Georgiana, 


CHARACTER   AND  EPISODE  171 

IWhat  shall  we  do  now  ?    Not  a  horse  to  drive 
Or  cow  to  milk !  —  All  gone  you  say,  Mote  ? 
—  gone  ? 

MOTE  (with  tears  in  his  voice)  : 

Yass  ?um,  Miss'  Sally,  nary  a  one  wuz  lef. 

GEORGIANA  (more  desperately  than  before)  : 
I  wish  I  were  a  man !    Oh  to  be  a  man ! 
To   face   these  cowards   that  make  war  on 
women ! 

Military  footsteps  are  heard  on  the  verandah, 
and  the  jingle  of  accoutrements.  Old  Mote 
hurries  to  the  window,  peers  out  cautiously, 
and  then  hurries  back  to  Mrs.  Houston  and 
Georgiana,  who  have  remained  in  the  back 
ground,  near  the  stairway,  whither  they 
fled  at  the  sound  of  soldiers'  approach. 

MOTE  (huskily)  : 

Dey  's  dar,  Miss7  Sally ;  an'  de  Cap'un  ?s  wid 

'um.  — 

Yuh  'd  better  hide  yuhself.    ~No  tellin'  now 
Whut  ?s  hup.    De  Cap'un-man  is  wid  7um. 

GEORGIANA  (despairingly)  : 

More  shame !  disgrace !  —  Oh,  God !  were  I 
a  man! 

MRS.  HOUSTON  (weepingly)  : 

Another  outrage!     Not  a  day  goes  by 
But  that  some  new  affront  or  insult 's  offered. 


172      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

A  voice  commanding  ff  Halt ! "  is  heard  outside 
the  door.  The  footsteps  cease  with  a  clatter 
of  arms.  A  peremptory  knock  is  given  the 
door.  The  two  women  stand  waiting  in 
attitudes  of  expectation  and  defiance.,  old 
Mote  behind  them.  No  notice  is  taken  of 
the  first  knock.  It  is  repeated  more  vigor 
ously,  and  again  ignored. 

MES.  HOUSTON  (breathlessly)  : 

What  can  they  want  now !  oh,  what  can  they 
want? 

GEORGIAN  A  (still  desperately)  : 

To  be  a  man!  to  be  a  man  right  now! 
Armed  with  some  sort  of  weapon.  —  I  would 

give 
My  soul.  .  .  . 

The  door  is  flung  violently  open  and  a  Lieu 
tenant,  with  a  squad  of  Federal  soldiers  in 
soiled  uniforms,  is  discovered  in  the  door 
way.  The  Lieutenant  is  a  man  of  about 
five  and  twenty,  of  an  assured  military 
bearing,  and  a  handsome  manner.  Salut 
ing  he  advances  unsmilingly  towards  the 
two  ladies,  his  soldiers  filling  the  doorway. 

LIEUTENANT  (courteously) : 

I  might  have  knocked  again. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  173 

GEORGIANA  (scornfully)  : 

And  why  ? 

You  could  not  enter  here  except  by  force. 
You  overwhelm  us  with  your  courtesies. 

MRS.  HOUSTON  (very  rapidly)  : 

?T  is  not  enough  that  you  have  robbed  us,  sir, 
But  you  must  march  your  ruffians  to  our  door, 
And  through  our  house  perhaps.  Is  7t  not 

sufficient 

That  you  have  stripped  our  barns  and  pas 
tures  of 
The  last  of  all  our  herds  ?    Needs  must  you 

now 

Add  outrage  unto  outrage;  insult  to  injury? 
Why  have  you  come  here  ?  and  are  twenty  men 
Required  for  the  arresting  of  two  women  ? 
This  must  be  Yankee  bravery. 

LIEUTENANT  (courteously)  : 

Pardon,  Madam ! 

GEORGIANA  (interrupting  him  furiously)  : 
Pardon  indeed !  —  When  thieves  and  thugs 

win  pardon 

For  deeds  like  yours,  honor  will  be  a  name, 
And  honesty  a  by- word.    Why  are  you  here  ? 
And  back  of  you  these  bristling  bayonets  ? 
Are  we  then  spies  ?  and  would  you  hang  us 

now? 


174     THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Or  loot  the  House  and  burn  it  afterwards, 
As  Sherman  does  in  Georgia?     What  would 
you  here? 

LIEUTENANT  (quietly,  half  smilingly)  : 
I  was  about  to  tell  you  when  I  entered. 
No  outrage  is  intended,  and  no  insult. 
I  have  received  my  orders  from  Headquarters 
To  search  out  firearms  in  this  rebel  district. 
And  disinfect  it,  as  it  were,  of  danger. 
I  '11  to  the  point,  however :  Weapons,  firearms, 
Whatever  arms  you  have,  or  great  or  small, 
Must  be  delivered  up. 

GEOBGIANA  (scornfully)  : 

And,  pray  sir,  why  ? 

We  are  but  women.    Two  against  an  army. 
You  seem  to  think  that  we  are  dangerous. 

LIEUTENANT  (calmly)  : 

You  are  notorious  rebels.     This  is  war. 
The  country  all  about  us  here  is  hostile. 
Our  sentinels  are  ambushed  in  the  night. 
We    have    lost    many    men    through    such 

guerillas. 

Therefore  the  Government  has  issued  orders : 
"  Where    any    are    suspect   their   homes    be 

searched 
And  weapons  seized,  and  they,  when  they  are 

men, 
Imprisoned."  —  It  is  known  that  you  have 

housed 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  175 

Confederates  lately.    And  I  have  commands 
To  search  your  house  unless  you  willingly 
Give   up    all   firearms   that   you   have   con 
cealed.  — 
This  I  regret.    But  I  obey  my  orders. 

MRS.  HOUSTON  (plaintively)  : 

Have  we  not  had  indignities  enough 

This  year  from  you  invaders  ?    Grief,  distress 

Of  mind  and  body  too  in  death  and  loss. 

My  son  slain  there  at  Gettysburg :  my  husband 

Wounded,  —  in  prison :  then  our  property 

Even  to  our  last  cow  confiscated.  —  Now 

You  would  invade  our  home. 

LIEUTENANT : 

'T  is  hard.  But  such  is  war. 

GEORGIAN  A  (defiantly)  : 

War  ?  —  Yes !  —  But  must  you  level  war  on 

women  ? 

If  we  had  arms  we  might  protect  ourselves. 
But  we  have  none,  only  our  hands,  —  and 

hearts, 
That  build  a  bulwark  'gainst  you.    Were  I  a 

man 

I  would  wipe  out  this  insult  with  a  sword, 
Or  die  in  trying  to.     Even  now,  had  I  a 

weapon, 
I  would  resist  you.    But  we  have  no  arms. 


176   THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

LIEUTENANT  (firmly,  but  courteously)  : 
So  much  the  better  since  you  are  for  war. 
Yet  I  must  search  the  house  to  prove  it  true. 

Beckons  to  the  corporal  at  the  door.,  wlw,  with 
several  men,  enters  the  hall.,  saluting  the 
Lieutenant,  and  stands  awaiting  orders. 

MKS.  HOUSTON  (in  tears)  : 

We  're  only  women.  We  can  not  resist. 
Insult  us  as  you  please,  or  slay  us  here. 
Might  makes  for  right.  We  're  helpless  to 

withstand 

The  many  that  are  back  of  you.     Indignities 
We  have  grown  used  to,  as  one  may  become 
Accustomed  to  diseases  when  prolonged.  — 
This  man  will  search  our  house,  you  heard, 

Georgiana  ? 

GEOEGIANA  (impatiently)  : 

I  heard  him,  mother.  (To  the  Lieutenant)  : 
Will  you  take  my  word 

We  have  no  firearms  here,  concealed  or  un 
concealed  ? 

LIEUTENANT  (suavely)  : 

I  would  not  doubt  your  word,  but  I  must  see. 

GEOKGIANA  (with  sarcasm)  : 

Why  not  proclaim  me  liar  and  be  done  ? 
Your  very  words  have  put  a  doubt  on  truth.  — 


CHARACTER   AND   EPISODE  177 

Well,  sir,  since  you  insist,  I  '11  fetch  what 

firearms, 

The  only  ones  I  know  of,  we  may  have. 
They  may  be  useful  to  you.    As  for  us  — 
They  're  ancient  implements  we  do  not  need ; 
Therefore  7t  is  folly  to  keep  them.  —  I  will 

fetch  them 

If  you  711  permit  me,  and  will  order  these 
(Indicating  the  corporal  and  his  men) 
To  quit  the  house.     I  will  deliver  all 
That  I  can  find,  and  with  them  your  dismissal. 

LIEUTENANT  : 

I  ask  no  more.     ?T  is  all  that  I  require. 
And  I  shall  thank  you,  madam,  and  remove 
The  cause  of  this  contention. 

GEORGIANS  (scornfully)  : 

You  are  kind. 

(To  old  Mote  who  has  been  hesitating 
in  the  background  during  this  col 
loquy)  : 

Come  with  me,  Mote.     I  need  a  little  assist 
ance. 

(To  Lieutenant,  as  she  is  about  to 
ascend  the  stairway  respectfully  fol 
lowed  by  the  old  darJcey)  : 
Give  me  your  word  of  honor  as  a  man 
And  officer  that  you  will  quit  this  house 
And  with  you  all  these  raiders. 


178  THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

LIEUTENANT  (smiling)  : 

If  the  arms,  — 

All  that  you  have,  —  are  here  delivered  me, 
I  pledge  myself  as  officer  and  gentleman 
Immediately  to  remove  from  you  the  cause 
Of  your  disturbance. 

GEORGIAN  A  (ironically)  : 

You  are  kind  indeed ! 
(To  Mrs.  Houston) : 
Now,    mother,     you    must    calm    yourself. 

You  Ve  heard 

Him  name  himself  a  gentleman.    No  harm 
Will  come  to  any  woman  from  a  man, 
Even  a  Yankee,  who  's  a  gentleman. 
(Exit  with  Mote  up  stairway.) 

MRS.  HOUSTON  (bewildered)  : 

That  we  have  firearms  in  the  house  is  more 
Than  I  can  understand.     Who  brought  them 

here  ? 
Georgiana  says  they  ?re  here,  and  she  must 

know. 
But  't  is  bewildering.    I  knew  of  none. 

LIEUTENANT  (affably)  : 

Believe  me,  madam,  I  am  very  sorry 

That  we  have  so  distressed  you.     I  would 

rather 

Be  friends  than  enemies  with  Houston  House, 
Famed    for   its    hospitality   throughout    the 

State. 


CHARACTER   AND  EPISODE  179 

But  these  are  war  times;  and  in  such,  you 

know, 

Unfriendliness  is  breeder  of  suspicion, 
And  all  suspects  are  subject  to  intrusion. 

MRS.  HOUSTON: 

But,  sir,  we  have  not  entertained  a  Southern 

soldier 
For  months.     We  have  not,  to  my  certain 

knowledge, 

A  firearm  on  the  place.    It  is  our  Cause, 
I  fear,  that 's  our  offence,  and  your  excuse 
For  this  intrusion.     Georgiana  now, 
Unless  I  am  mistaken,  will  discover 
Nothing  that  you  demand.     A  young  girl's 

pride 
In  that  which  she  holds  sacred,  which  she  7d 

keep 

From  desecration,  has  devised  a  ruse. 
But  then  she  may  have  at  some  time  discov 
ered, 

There  in  the  attic,  gun  or  old  horse-pistol, 
Useless  and  harmless  now.     We  had  a  flint 
lock 

And  powder-horn,  both  relics  of  old  days,  — 
'T  was   said   they   once  belonged  to  Daniel 

Boone,  — 

Hung  up  there  o'er  the  doorway  to  that  room 
Upon  those  antlers,  but  they  disappeared 
Some  months  ago  and  with  them  a  young 
slave. 


180     THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Search  in  your  army;  you  may  find  them 

there 

With  him,  our  runaway.  —  We  are  not  now 
What  once  we  were.  The  war  has  taken  much, 
And  will  take  all,  perhaps,  before  it  end. 

LIEUTENANT  (sympathetically) : 

War  is  not  kind  to  any.     Least  of  all 
To  women,  who  must  stay  at  home  and  brood. 
War  is  not  kind  to  women's  hearts,  dear  lady. 
Men   glory    in    war,    and    to   them    all    the 

glory.  .  .  . 

The  mothers  and  the  sweethearts  have  to  bear 
The  heavier  burden  —  sorrow  and  despair. 
They  sit  or  busy  themselves  at  home  and  wait 
For  tidings  of  their  loved  ones :  battles  fought, 
Or  battles  to  be  fought.    Anxiety 
Sits  with  them  or  goes  at  their  side  forever. 
The  pathos  of  it !     In  the  bivouac 
Or  battle  men  know  nothing  at  all  of  this. 
The  eyes  of  danger  lure  them  on  to  deeds 
And  death  perhaps ;  and  deprivations  only 
Turn  their  male  thoughts  to  home  and  wife 

and  sweetheart, 
And  comforts  that  they  miss.     But  at  the 

bugle 
Their  hearts  are  fire  again  with  dreams  of 

battle, 

And  victory,  bright  in  a  cloud  of  banners, 
And   smoke  of  cannon,  glittering  ranks  of 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  181 

Waving  them  on  to  glory,  or  destruction.  .  .  . 

War  is  not  kind,  war  is  not  kind  to  women. 

Why  have  I  spoken  words  like  these  to  you  ? — 

Perhaps  because  I  have  a  mother  and  sister.  — 

But  here  's  your  daughter. 

(Enter  Georgians  on  the  stairway, 
followed  by  Mote,  both  of  them 
fairly  loaded  down  with  a  miscel 
laneous  collection  of  hearth  uten 
sils:  such  as  andirons,  fire-tongs, 
ash-shovels,  pokers,  etc.) 

GEOKGIANA  (advancing  rapidly  and  defiantly, 
with  flushed  face  and  flashing  eyes,  clash 
ing  her  armful  of  iron  and  brass  down 
at  the  feet  of  the  Lieutenant)  : 

Here  are  your  firearms ! 
There!   take  them  all  away.     We  have  no 

others.  — 
Now  quit  our  house.  — 

(Old  Mote  advances  chuckling  and 
deposits  his  armful  carefully  on  top 
of  Georgiana's.) 

MOTE  (grinning)  : 

An7  dar  's  de  rest  un  'um. 

LIEUTENANT  (astonished;  then  'reddening  with 

confusion  at  the  smiles  of  his  soldiers)  : 
What  7s   this  ?  —  your   firearms,   madam  ?  — 
True!  — 


182      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

(Recovering    himself,    lie    continues 

with  seeming  seriousness)  : 
They  might  prove  deadly  weapons  in  desper 
ate  hands. 

MRS.  HOUSTON    (who   has  begun  to   like   the 
young  Lieutenant  since  her  tete-a-tete 
with  him  a  moment  ago)  : 
Why,  Georgiana  !  child,  how  could  you  ? 

GEORGIAN  A  (still  defiant)  : 

Well! 

He  said  he  wanted  them,  and  there  they  are. 
They  are  the  only  firearms  that  we  have. 
Now  let  him  take  them,  all  of  them  away, 
And  himself  too.  —  All  we  desire  is  peace. 


(smiling,  mockery  and  admiration 
in  his  face)  : 
Indeed!   an  iron  argument  for  peace,   dear 

lady.  — 
But,  pray  you,  now  retain  your  arms.     And 

let 
Peace  be  declared  between  us. 

(Turning  to  his  amused  squad)  : 

Attention.     Face. 

Salute  the  ladies.    Right  about.    March. 
(Exit  bowing.) 

MBS.  HOUSTON  (forlornly;  while  old  Mote,  ex 
ploding  with  laughter,  retires  by  door 
way,  center)  : 


CHARACTER   AND   EPISODE  183 

Well,  well,  my  dear,  however  could  you  do  it  ? 
And  he  so  kind. 

GEOEGIAITA  (surprised  at  lier  mother's  tone)  : 

So  kind  ?  —  And  do  you  call  it  kindness 
To  force  your  way,  with  arms,  into  our  house, 
And  search  out  reasons  to  confirm  suspicions  ? 
I  call  it  outrage !  I^ever  call  it  kindness.  — 

(A  little  mollified)  : 

I  hope  we  Ve  seen  the  last  of  him  and  all 
Who  wear  his  hateful  uniform.  —  Oh  dear ! 

MES.  HOUSTON  (in  a  gentle  voice)  : 
He  had  his  orders,  Georgiana,  dear. 
You  must  not  blame  him  too  much.     War  ?s 
at  fault. 

GEORGIANA  (suddenly  despondent)  : 

I  do  not  blame  him,  mother.    He  was  nice. 

But  that  he  should  come  prying  here  awoke 

A  rage  in  me  I  can  not  understand. 

If  it  had  been  another  man,  why,  I  — 

Would  not  have  cared  at  all.    But  he  aroused 

An  angry  opposition  here  in  me 

I  can  not  well  explain.    I  'd  rather  have  died 

Than  let  him  search  the  house.  —  Oh,  I  am 

tired 
Of  this  long  war.  —  When  will  it  end  ?  oh, 

when! 

The  grief,  the  heartbreak  of  it  all !  the  wait 
ing, 


184       THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

The  weary  waiting  and  the  lack  of  loving.  — 
Mother,  he,  too,  is  young ;  may  have  a  sister, 
A  sweetheart,  maybe.  And  he  may  be  killed, 
Next  week,  to-night.  —  Oh,  mother,  war  ?s  so 

cruel.  — 
I  am  unhappy,  mother,  so  unhappy. 

MRS.  HOUSTON  (taking  her  soothingly  into  her 

arms) : 

There,  there,  my  child !  my  little  Georgiana ! 
Have  patience  yet  awhile.    We  must  be  brave. 
And  trust  in  God.    All  will  come  right  with 
time. 

GEORGIANA  (sighing) : 

He  had  kind  eyes;  and  when  he  smiled  I 

thought 

He  looked  like  brother.  Had  he  come  to  us 
In  any  way  but  this,  I  could  have  —  liked 

him. 

But  he  is  gone  now,  never  to  return. 
War  is  so  cruel,  mother,  Love  unkind. 

CURTAIN 


A  CRYING  IN  THE  NIGHT 

PERSONS  :  A  SICK  GIRL 

A  GIRL  FRIEND 

SCENE  :  A.  poorly  but  neatly  furnished  cottage  'bedroom, 
adjoining  and  opening  into  a  kitchen. 

SICK  GIRL: 
It 's  in  the  kitchen.    Don't  you  hear  it  crying  ? 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

There  7s  nothing  there  but  trouble  of  the  flue 
With  wind  and  rain. 

SICK  GIRL: 

You  know,  when  it  was  dying 
It  cried  like  that. — What  shall  I,  can  I  do  ? — 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

You  poor,  poor  thing !  there,  there. 

SICK  GIRL: 

I  saw  the  fire 
Was  low,   and  put   it  .  .  .  underneath   the 

coal; 
And   as   it   burned   its   cry   rose   high   and 

higher.  — 
Tell  me  ?  —  Can  imperfection  have  a  soul  ? 


186     THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

An  embryo,  no  human  thing  could  love, 
That  must  associate  itself  with  shame !  — 
Are  you  quite  sure  there 's  nothing  in  the 

stove  ?  — 
Ah,  God !  ah,  God !  for  what  am  I  to  blame  ? 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

Keep  still ;  and  try  to  think  of  that  no  more. 
You  will  go  mad  if  you  keep  on  like  this. 

SICK  GIRL  (listening  intently): 

Now !  don't  you  hear  it  crying  at  the  door  ?  — 
Surely  you  must.  —  How  horrible  it  is !  — 
To  think  it  suffers  there !  —  But  you  —  you 

know 

How,  so  unthinking,  and  how,  unprepared 
For  all,  I  ?ve  suffered.     It  was  like  a  blow. 
I  should  have  been  advised,  and  never  dared 
To  face  my  mother. 

GIRL  FRIEND  (positively)  : 

Why,  you  should  have  shared 
Your  trouble  with  her. 

SICK  GIRL: 

Never,  never  that ! 
To  have  her  know  ?    That  would  have  ended 

all. 
But  how  I  Ve  suffered !  —  Smiling  I  have 

So  4- 
Ci\J) 

Smiling,  yet  dreadful  of  what  would  befall: 
Fearful  of  every  movement;    as  I  went 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  187 

Studying  concealment;  she  suspecting  naught. 

God  help  me  now  to  keep  her  ignorant 

Of  this   my   crime,   that  blackened   all   my 

thought 
For  months,  till  it  was  done.  —  But  let  it 

be.— 

You  are  the  one  who  understood  somehow, 
You  are  the  one  who  has  befriended  me.  .  .  . 
But,  listen  !  —  don't  you  hear  it  crying  now  ?  — 

GIEL  FRIEND: 

Lie    quiet.      ?T  is  the   wind   in   some   wild 

crack.  .  .•  . 

I  know  your  mother.  —  That  she  ?d  be  away 
These  two  bad  days  now!     When  does  she 

come  back? 

SICK  GIRL: 

I  fear  to-morrow;  or,  perhaps,  next  day. 
Could   we   devise   some   plan   to   make   her 
stay  ?  — 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

The  sooner  she  returns  the  better. 

SICK  GIRL: 


Oh,  had  my  father  lived  this  had  not  been  ! 
How  hard  life  is  !  how  miserable  and  hard  !  — 
When  father  died  I  was  not  seventeen, 
And  from  that  time  it  seems  my  life  was 
marred. 


188     THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

I  had  to  go  to  work.  —  Then  brother  died.  — 
It  seems  all  things  combined  to  make  me  bad. 
I  lost  my  place.    How  was  I  to  decide  ? 
We  had  to  live.  —  No  work  was  to  be  had. 
There  was  but  one  thing  left :  my  hands  were 

tied; 

And  I  was  sold,  like  any  slave:  nor  knew 
Who  in  the  end  would  pay  the  reckoning. 
There  was  no  other  thing  for  me  to  do. 
I  was  so  ignorant  of  everything. 
This  way  seemed  easy.     God  would  give  no 

sign. 

And  there  was  mother  who  was  ailing  much, 
And  if  I  lost  her,  too,  what  fate  were  mine ! 
The  wonder  is  that  God  permitted  such.  .  .  . 
But  that  7s  a  thing  Life  often  wonders  at  — 
God's  huge  indifference,  and  disregard 
Of  all  distress ;  the  misery,  leaving  scarred, 
Or  stained,   the   soul,   that  gropes   in  utter 

night : 

Ah,  if  the  soul  had  but  a  little  light !  — 
There  came  no  sign.    My  faith  brought  noth 
ing  in. 
We  could  not  live  on  prayer,  when  by  our 

hearth 

Starvation  sat,  gaunt  knuckled,  hand  on  chin, 
Staring   the   soul   dead.      What   was   virtue 

worth 
Before  that  stare,   that  mixed   it  with  the 

earth  ? 
Something  to  barter  in  the  House  of  Sin, 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  189 

Of  little  value,  and  just  left  to  rot, 
Whether  7t  is  sold,  or  whether  it  is  not. 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

You  must  not  talk  like  that.  —  'T  will  in 
jure  you. 

SICK  GIRL: 

And  does  it  matter  ?  —  Shall  I  live  ?  —  For 
what? 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

Your  mother !  —  When  she  comes  what  will 
you  do? 

SICK  GIRL  (with  determination  and  conviction)  : 
Oh,  when  she  comes  I  must  be  out  and  up. 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

Have  in  the  doctor. 

SICK  GIRL: 

That  would  not  be  safe. 
He  would  ask  questions.  — 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

Well,  then.  Drink  this  cup 
Of  tea :  Jt  will  help  you. 

SICK  GIRL  (suddenly  starting  up,  a  look  of  in 
expressible  fear  on  her  face)  : 

Hark !  —  the  little  waif 


190    THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Is    crying    there    again !  —  Oh,    you    must 

hear ! — 
You  hear  but  say  you  don't. 

GIRL  FRIEND  (shuddering)  : 

You  make  me  creep. 
It 's  just  perhaps  a  singing  in  your  ear 
The  tea  would  make. 

SICK  GIRL  (sobbing) : 

Will  it  always  weep, 
And  never  cease,  from  year  to  haunted  year  ? 

GIRL  FRIEND  (going  cautiously  to  the  Jcitchen 
door;  listening;  and  then  returning  to 
the  Sick  Girl's  side)  : 

There  ?s  nothing  there,  I  tell  you,  but  your 
fear.  — 

Be  quiet  now  and  try  to  go  to  sleep. 

SICK  GIRL  (gazing  wildly  about  the  room)  : 
I  can  not  sleep.    And  yet  not  for  myself 
Am  I  afraid.    You  know  what  I  believe : 
The  Bible  there  upon  that  under-shelf 
Damns  me  forever.     Not  for  that  I  grieve  — 
But  that  the  Thing  had  life  which  I  thought 

dead! 

That  it  had  life,  and  was  so  slain  by  me, 
That  makes  the  crying  here,  here  in  my  head, 
And  in  my  heart  the  piercing  agony. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  191 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

I  think,  perhaps,  I  '11  have  the  doctor  in. 

SICK  GIRL: 
Not  you !  —  And  have  him  know  ?  —  Put  that 

thought  by ! 

You  'd  have  the  whole  town  yelping  of  my  sin. 
Think  of  my  mother !  —  Ah !  —  I'd  rather 

die. 

GIRL  FRIEND: 
Then  I  must  go. 

SICK  GIRL: 

And  leave  me  here  with  it! 

GIRL  FRIEND: 
Yes;    I  must  go. 

SICK  GIRL: 

And  would  you  leave  me  so  ?  — 
When  I  'm  afraid  the  door  there  where  you 

sit,  — 

If  you  should  go,  will  open  very  slow 
And  it  will  enter,  with  its  blackened  face, 
All  accusation,  and  its  eyes  aglow 
With  God's  damnation. 

GIRL  FRIEND  (concealing  her  own  terror  under 
a  nervous  smile)  : 

There  is  not  a  trace 

Of  sense  in  all  this  horror !  —  If  I  stay 
You  '11  have  to  talk  less. 


192      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

SICK  GIEL: 

That  7s  my  girl-friend  Grace  ! 
How  kind  you  are.     But  close  the  kitchen 

door, 
And  shut  the  voice  out.  —  If  I  could  but 


Then  it  might  hush  its  crying;   take  away 
This  terror  too  down  deep  in  my  heart's  core. 

GIEL  FEIEND: 

You  're  hard  on  your  poor  self.    If  you  could 
sleep  ! 

SICK  GIEL: 

I  can  not  sleep,  I  can  not  sleep  to-night  ! 
That  crying  there.     If  you  would  only  keep 
The  door  locked  fast,  and  light  another  light. 

GIEL  FEIEND   (goes  into  the  kitchen,  returns 

with  another  lighted  lamp)  : 
There  now.    Don't  trouble.    It  is  closed  once 

more.     (  C  losing  door.) 
I  Ve  brought  the  kitchen  lamp  along. 

SICK  GIEL:  That  's  right.  — 

And  did  you  hear  it  crying  as  before  ? 

GIEL  FEIEND: 

Naught  heard  I  save  the  water  in  a  pan 
Simmering  and  steaming.    Now  I  '11  lock  the 
door. 

(Goes  to  the  door  and  locks  it  care- 
fully.) 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  193 

SICK  GIRL  (with  a  sigh  of  relief)  : 
To  me  you  are  far  braver  than  a  man. 

(Listening  intently  for  a  minute  or 

two.) 
It's  stopped  its  wailing.     (Brightening  up.) 

When  my  mother  comes 
To-morrow  morning  I  must  be  about. 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

You  '11  stay  in  bed. 


SICK  GIRL: 

Lie  here  and  bite  my  thumbs  ?  — 
No ;  I  '11  be  up.    And  better,  too,  no  doubt. 

GIRL  FRIEND: 

You  '11  kill  yourself. 

SICK  GIRL  (with  pensive  pathos)  : 

There  is  no  other  way. 
I  have  to  pay  —  that 's  all  that  I  regret. 
It  is  the  woman  always  has  to  pay. 
The  man  can  sin :  his  sin  entails  no  debt.  — 

(After  a  long  pause)  : 
But  what  I  did  I  did  deliberately 
For  money  for  my  mother,  who  has  fought 
Want  all  her  life !  —  That  clears  me,  don't 
you  see? 

( With  conviction)  : 


194      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And    if   she   never   knows  —  why   give 't   a 
thought  ?  — 

(She    lifts   herself,    listening    again. 
Smiles  wanly  as  if  satisfied  with 
the  stillness,  and  sighs)  : 
Now  prop  my  pillow  up,   and  smooth  the 

sheet : 

I  feel  so  drowsy.  —  Ah,  the  hush  is  deep ! 
It 's  good  as  music ;  but  to  me  more  sweet 
Than   any  sound.  —  And,   oh,   how  I   shall 
sleep ! 


THE   WOMAN   ON   THE    ROAD 

PERSONS:    A  WOMAN,  with  a  Child  in  her  arms 

A  LITTLE  BOY 

A  MAN 
SCENE  :   A  Country  Road  near  a  deep  and  hilly  wood. 

THE  MAN  (overtaking  the  Woman,  who  looks 

worn  and  tired)  : 

That 's  a  good  load  now  for  a  weary  woman ! 
The  babe  's  enough,  but  the  big  bag  beside !  — 
It  is  too  much. 

THE   WOMAN    (wearily,   looking  at   him   and 
speaking  with  impatience)  : 

What  would  you  have  me  do,  man  ?  — 
They  who  have  money  can  afford  to  ride. 
It  seems  to  me  I  am  no  longer  human.  — 
What  time  is  it  ? 

THE  MAN  (with  a  kindly  smile)  : 

Not  long  till  eventide.  — 
Your  boy  looks  worn  out,  too. 

THE  WOMAN  (fiercely,  addressing,  as  it  were, 
the  malign  cause  of  it  all)  : 

~No  wonder !  Walking 
Since  seven  to-day,  and  little  rest  between, 
And  less  of  food.     But  1 7m  too  tired  for 
talking. 


196      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

THE  MAN  (softly)  : 

That  you  are  tired  is  easy  to  be  seen. 

THE  WOMAN  (somewhat  mollified  and  setting 

down  bundle)  : 

But  what  one  don't  see  is  the  heavy  aching 
Here.      (Laying  hand  on  heart.)     While  I 

walk  it  does  n't  bother  so. 
The  rocking  keeps  the  baby  too  from  waking. 
Perhaps  you  are  a  father,  and  you  know. 

THE  MAN  (quietly  smiling)  : 

I  wish  I  knew.  —  Your  children  are  quite 

taking.  .  .  . 
And  where  's  their  father  ? 

THE  WOMAN  (dejectedly)  : 

Dead  a  year  ago. 

Killed  by  a  train  —  a  freight,  where  he  was 
braking. 

THE  MAN  (quickly)  : 

And  did  n't  the  railroad  pay  ?  — 

THE  WOMAN  (indignantly)  : 

Pay  ?  —  Carelessness 
They  proved  it  was.     And  all  our  savings 

went. 
And  then  —  and  then  —  the  baby  came. 

THE  MAN  (sympathizingly)  : 

I  guess 

What  followed :  —  hunger.  — (Indignantly) : 
They  not  mulct  a  cent ! 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  197 

THE  WOMAN  (wearily)  : 

We  Ve  walked  and  begged  our  way  for  many 

a  mile. 

It 's  Shepherdstown  that  we  are  walking  to. 
My  husband's  folks  are  there. 

THE  MAN  (musingly/)  : 

?T  will  take  a  while.  — 
At  least  till  midnight.     (  With  decision)  :  It 

would  never  do. 

You  can  not  walk  it  with  that  tired  boy.  — 
How  old  is  he  ?    A  sturdy  lad* 

THE  WOMAN  : 

Just  six. 

THE  MAN  (ingratiatingly)  : 

Come   here,   young   man.      What  have   you 
there  ?    A  toy  ? 

CHILD  : 

No,    sir :   a  torch,  —  just   berries   stuck   on 

sticks,  — 
To   light   the   way   with.  —  Have   you    any 

cakes  ? 
I  'm  hungry,  Mister.     (Smiling  up  wistfully 

at  the  Man.) 

THE    MAN    (with    decision,    turning    to    the 
Woman)  : 

Give  the  babe  to  me, 
And  rest  you  here. 


198      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

THE  WOMAN  (as  the  baby  wakes,  seating  her 
self  and  beginning  to  nurse  it)  : 

How  my  poor  body  aches  ! 
So  Shepherdstown  is  miles  away  ? 

THE  MAN  (vaguely)  : 

May  be.  — 
My  farm  is  close.     You  '11  stop  there  for 

awhile, 

Till  I  search  out  the  people  you  would  know 
lAt  Shepherdstown.     (Suddenly)  :  Your  boy 

now  has  the  smile 

Of  someone  that  I  know,  or  knew.    But,  no, 
Impossible. 

THE  WOMAN  (impressively)  : 

He  has  his  father's  eyes. 
His  father  came  from  Shepherdstown,  you 


THE  MAN  (intently)  : 

And  may  I  ask  his  name  ? 

THE  WOMAN: 

His  name  was  Wise  — 

Jim  Wise.  —  Perhaps  you  know  his  family  ? 
You  live  so  near  to  Shepherdstown. 

THE  MAN  (with  emotion)  : 

Why,  yes. 

I   know   his    family.      Why,    Jim,    now,  — 
Jim  — 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  199 

Why,  my  name 's  Wise !  —  My  brother  Jim, 

I  guess, 
You  're  speaking  of.  —  Years  since  we  heard 

of  him. 

THE  WOMAN  (incredulously}  : 
Where  do  you  live,  sir  ? 

THE  MAN  (dreamily) : 

Not  so  far  from  here : 
Beyond  this  strip   of  wood.  —  You   see,   I 

farm. 

Jim  never  did  like  farming.    It  was  queer. 
The  City  swallowed  him.    He  came  to  harm, 
So  I  have  heard,  through  women. 

THE  WOMAN  (vehemently,  starling  to  her  feet)  : 

It 's  a  lie !  — 

Here  is  the  only  woman  whom  he  knew, 
And  here  the  children  you  may  know  her  by. 

THE  MAN: 

I  meant  no  insult.    Why,  I  know  how  true 
A  woman  you  are.     You  must  have  helped 

my  brother.  — 
We  heard   he  'd   married,   that   was   all.  — 

Well,  well. 
And  you  're  his  widow  ?  —  This  is  news  for 

mother. 

THE  BOY  (who  has  been  looking  wide-eyed  at 

the  Man  during  all  this  talk)  : 
It  ?s  suppertime.     It  ?s  nearly  time  to  start. 


200      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

THE  MAN  (laughing  and  hugging  the  boy  close 

up  to  him)  : 

Why,  so  it  is.    And  there  's  a  lot  to  tell 
To  your  old  Granny.  —  Seems  incredible.  — 
Look  at  me,  boy.     Why,  you  're  Jim's  coun 
terpart. 

THE  BOY  (looking  earnestly  at  the  Man)  : 
What    is    a    counterpart  ?  —  Where    people 

eat?  — 
And   will  7t  be   cake  ?   or   something  like   a 

tart?  — 

THE  MAN  (with  decision  in  his  manner  and 

voice)  : 
Yes,   it  '11  be  cake.  —  Now  hurry.  —  Come 

this  way. 

But  I  must  carry  you.    Your  little  feet 
Have  earned  a  ride.     (Mounting  boy  on  his 

back):  There! 

THE  WOMAN  (smiling  wanly)  : 

You  're  Jim's  brother  Ray. 

THE  MAN  (nodding  over  his  shoulder)  : 
How  did  you  guess  ? 

THE  WOMAN: 

Just  by  the  way  you  treat 
My  little  boy  and  me.  One  need  not  say.  — 
Often  I  've  heard  J  im  tell  of  you. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  201 

THE  MAN  (pointing)  : 

But  look ! 
There  is  your  home  now;    by  the  roadside 

there, 
Among  the  flowers,  beyond  this  cressy  brook. 

THE  WOMAN: 

How  honeysuckle-sweet !    And  what  a  bed 
Of  Giant-of -Battle  roses !  —  Everywhere 
Are  flowers !  —  Just  as  Jim  has  often  said. 
He  loved  to  picture  it.  ...  All  those  iron 

years 

The  memory  of  this  place  kept  soft  his  heart. 
He  was  a  good  man  —  Jim. 

THE  MAN: 

Don't  cry  now.    Tears 
Are  done  with.    This  is  home.    You  Ve  done 

your  part 
By  Jim,  and  now  we  '11  do  our  part  by  you. 

THE  WOMAN  (drying  her  eyes)  : 

It  seems  to  me  too  beautiful  to  be  true. 
It  is  a  dream  I  ?11  wake  from. 

THE  MAN  (smiling  at  her)  : 

!Not  this  week 
Nor  many  a  week  to  come.  —  There  7s  mother, 

see! 
Look  where  she  waits  now  in  that  sunset 

streak 
Beside  the  gate,  gray  in  the  shrubbery. 


202      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

THE  WOMAN: 

What  a  kind  face  she  has ;  it  breathes  of  rest. 
But  we  Ve  no  right  here. 

THE  MAN: 

That  's  no  way  to  speak ! 

Our  home  is  your  home.  —  Don't  look  so  dis 
tressed. 

You  are  Jim's  widow.  —  Mother  '11  daughter 
you.  — 

And    there  're    your    children !  —  Don't,    or 
won't  you  see 

You  're  giving  more  than  you  receive  ?  —  I 
do.— 

Now  let 's  meet  mother.  —  Leave  it  all  to  me. 


ROBBER   GOLD 

THERE  Hangs  the  painting.  —  Will  you  sit 

And  hear  me  tell  how  it  was  born  ?  — 

Or,  rather,  why  I  value  it  ?  — 

It  may  be  that  it  helps  my  yarn: 

Prompts  memory:  saves  me,  say,  from  scorn 

Of  unbelievers,  such  as  you, 

•Who  may  not  think  my  story  true. 

You  like  the  picture,  eh  ?  —  It 's  clear.  — 

My  tale  epitomized,  you  see.  — 

For  me  it  has  the  thrill,  the  fear 

Of  that  tense  moment,  suddenly 

Which  swept  aside  my  poverty 

And  made  me  rich.  .  .  .  Ai,  ai !  —  Who  knows 

What  just  a  heel-tap  may  disclose ! 

I  who  sit  comfortable  now 

With  friends  beside  the  wine,  cigars, 

Was  less  than  dirt  beneath  the  plough 

Of  Fortune  once.  —  Head  here  the  scars 

Of  lost  black  battles  and  old  wars 

With  Fate.  .  .  .  But  there  ?s  my  tale  to  tell.  — 

I  fear  I  never  do  it  well. 

In  brief,  then :  —  In  a  land  of  thieves 
Was  one  —  a  thief  and  bushman ;   who,  — 


204      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Gray  as  gray  winter  when  it  grieves, 
Housed  me  one  night.  —  It  seems  he  knew 
Of  treasure  somewhere  —  had  a  clue, 
And  told  me.  —  Well,  as  many  had, 
I  thought  him  but  a  fool,  or  mad. 

Until  one  day  I  found  the  place  — 
A  bald  hill  rimmed  with  grizzly  grass, 
And  seamed  with  wrinkles,  like  a  face, 
Down  which  two  streams,  like  tears,  did  race 
From  one  round  pool,  as  still  as  glass, 
A  Cyclop's  eye,  browred  thick  with  thorn, 
That  seemed  to  leer  a  look  of  scorn. 

The  sunset  struck  athwart  the  land 
A  glare  of  hate;    an  evil  flame; 
Fierce  as  a  thought  that  lifts  a  hand 
Of  murder  in  an  outlaw  band, 
Commanding  to  some  deed  of  shame; 
And  like  a  signal  overhead, 
One  cloud  blew  wild,  a  ragged  red. 

A  cut-throat  place  for  cut-throat  deeds! 
With  death's-head  looks  all  wrung  and  wryed. — 
Was  it  a  bloodstain  in  the  weeds  ? 
Or  but  some  autumn  plant  whose  seeds 
Dropped  scarlet  on  the  gray  hillside  ?  — 
It  made  me  catch  my  breath  a  space, 
Fearing  to  see  a  dead  man's  face. 

I  left  my  horse :  and  looked  around 

For  that  dwarfed  pine,  he  said  the  waste 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  205 

Was    marked    with,  —  where    the    clue    was 

found.  ,  .  . 

JSTo  tree  was  there  —  save  on  the  ground 
A  rotted  trunk  with  lichens  laced; 
So  old  it  looked,  it  seemed  to  me 
It  had  been  dead  a  century. 

A  rock,  he  said,  with  arrows  hewn 

Lay  at  its  root.  —  Well,  there  were  rocks ! 

The  place  was  pierced  and  piled  and  strewn 

With  thousands ;  —  none  that  held  a  rune, 

To  point  me  to  that  buried  box.  — 

As  soon  search  out  one  bone  of  bones 

On  Doomsday  as  that  stone  of  stones. 

By  then  the  sunset  glare  had  died, 

And  darkness,  with  an  haggard  eye 

Of  moon,  crept  down  the  gaunt  hillside. 

I  sat  me  on  that  tree  and  tried 

To  think  the  thing  out.     Did  he  lie? 

That  bearded  beggar,  old  and  gray, 

That  bushman  I  had  found  one  day. 

What  right  had  one  so  foul  and  poor, 

So  helpless,  say,  in  such  a  spot, 

With  so  much  wealth?     ISTot  even  a  door 

To  his  vile  hovel,  where  I  bore 

Him  dying  when  I  found  him  shot.  — 

What  right  had  he,  so  poor  and  old, 

To  secrets,  say,  of  buried  gold  ? 


206      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Then  on  my  mind  it  flashed  like  rain  : 
The  man  was  mad  ;  —  had  lived  alone 
With  dreams  of  riches,  —  it  was  plain,  — 
Till  gold  possessed  him  bone  and  brain.  — 
Just  then  my  heel  wrenched  up  a  stone  .  .  . 
And  there!  as  plain  as  God's  half  moon 
In  heaven,  an  arrow  point  lay  hewn. 


" 


A  madman  ?  "  —  and  I  laughed  awry. 
"  A  fool  might  dig  to  prove  his  dream  !  "  — 
But  if  unproved,  a  fool  were  I 
To  come  so  near  to  pass  it  by, 
For  other  fools,  say,  to  redeem! 
When,  one  could  see,  —  you  understand,  — 
The  thing  lay  ready  to  my  hand. 

Well  ;  what  I  found  this  frame  declares  — 

This  canvas  —  see  ?  —  A  hill  of  rocks.  — 

The  artist  ?  —  Why,  a  name  that  shares 

Its  fame  with  none.  —  The  lean  moon  stares 

Upon  a  grave;    a  bursten  box; 

A  dead  man  by  them,  gray  and  old.  — 

I  call  my  picture  "  Kobber  Gold." 


THE   BATTLEFIELD 

AN  OLD  SOLDIER  TO   HIS   DOG 

COME  here,  old  fellow,  let  us  sit  and  talk.  — 
What  think  you  of  the  landscape  there  below, 
My  field  of  battle  ?  —  Was  it  worth  the  walk  ?  — 
What  ?  —  growling  ?  —  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 

No? 

—  Look  at  our  cabin  now,  the  sunset  flecks !  — 
Does  it  not  seem  to  smile  at  us  ?  —  Its  glow 
Is  as  if  joy  dwelt  there  of  long  ago, 
And  not  the  misery  of  two  old  wrecks. 
From  some  quite  different  time,  the  good  old 

past, 

When  happiness  housed  in  it,  unconcealed, 
And  round  it  flowed  the  blessings  of  the  field, 
It  got  that  happy  look  it  still  holds  fast. 
You  know  how  once  you  raced  the  rabbit  here, 
Or  watched  the  sheep ;  or  home  the  cows  would 

bring; 

Stopping  a  moment  there  beside  the  spring, 
While  from  the  grain  the  bob-white's  cry  rose 

clear  ? 
There  went  the  path  through  meadows,  dewy 

bright, 

That  to  the  lover  said,  "  I  am  the  way, 
The  very  shortest,  to  your  love  to-night. 


208      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Come,  follow  me,  and  clasp  your  heart's  de 
light." 

The  cornfield's  billows  there  no  longer  sway ; 
Weeds    and   the    briar   usurp    their   place    of 

plumes ; 

No  orchard  now  within  that  valley  blooms 
Or  bears  ripe  fruit,  where  those  old  boughs 

decay, 

And  death  with  barren  hand  the  hillside  grips : 
Our  path  has  nothing  more  of  love  to  tell, 
And  grimly  closes  tight  its  grassy  lips ; 
While  over  all  oblivion  lays  its  spell. 
Only  our  cabin  with  its  pear  tree  seems 
Glad,  unawakened  from  its  oldtime  dreams. 
'T  is  like  the  land  on  yonder  side  our  heath : 
Though  long  ago  joy  vanished  from  its  arms, 
Still  with  a  gown  of  flowers  it  decks  its  charms, 
Adorns  its  brow  with  love's  perennial  wreath. 
True  to  the  old,  already  mindless  of 
The  war   that   swept   it,   yearly   it  wears   its 

roses. 

In  that  small  place  to  live  is  good  enough, 
So    snugly    cabined,    quaint    'mid    blossoming 

closes. 

There  one  can  talk  with  every  wind  that  blows, 
And  with  the  neighborly  rain  that  comes  at 

night; 

And  there  one  may  look  up  and  greet  the  light, 
And  take  the  first  and  last  kiss  she  bestows. 
When  night  weds  star  to  star  with  ray  on  ray, 
And  you,  my  old  hound,  to  the  round  moon  bay, 


EPISODE  AND  CHARACTER  209 

How  good  it  is  to  lie  there,  looking  out, 
Marking  what  she,  the  pale  moon,  is  about, 
With  her  white  stealth ;  and,  gliding  silvery  wan, 
To  watch  her  towards   our  slumbering  cabin 

creep, 

Trying  with'  ghostly  fingers  until  dawn 
To  rob  it,  through  that  window,  of  its  sleep.  .  .  . 
Get  up,  old  fellow;    we  are  rested  now. 
Let  7s  move  about.     7T  will  help  us  talk  some 
how. 

Where  was  I  ?  —  Oh !  —  Why,  up  there  with  the 

moon 
Waiting  your  bay.  —  But,  see  you !  where  they 

gather, 
Whose  limbs  were  cannon-food  long  since  ?  or 

rather 
War's  vintage.  —  Look,  now,  where  they  march 

afar 

In  lines  of  sunset,  settling  on  yon  dune 
Where  batteries  bloomed  once,  star  on  crimson 

star, 

Oblations  on  the  altar-stone  of  war. 
Altar  ?  —  old  dog !  —  No !  slaughter-house  and 

furnace 

Of  Hell  was  this  same  field :   a  red  Avernus 
Of  thunder  and  of  flame  and  bugle-call  .  .  . 
There  where  that  banner  of  mist  streams  over 

all, 
Look!  look!  the  charge!  the  phantom  plunge 

and  fall 


210      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Of  bayonet  lines  of  hurtling  horse  and  men.  .  .  . 
All  silent  now,  at  peace  there  in  the  grave, 
Foe  side  by  side  with  foeman;   coward  and 

brave ; 

Rent  limbs  and  bodies ;  broken  hearts  of  mothers 
And  lovers,  too;    all  silent.  — God  be  praised! 
'T  is  past  and  done  with,  holocaust  and  all, 
And  what  we  saw  there  was  a  spectre  raised 
Of  fancy  merely,  thinking  on  the  fall 
Of  our  Confederacy.  —  How  natural 
It  seemed  at  first ;  but  now  the  scene  7s  erased. — 
What  does  it  matter  ?  we  ?re  aristocrats 
Still,  my  good  fellow,  spite  of  all  the  shame 
Of  that  defeat.     We  may  be  poor  as  rats, 
But  we  are  proud,  though  mutilated,  lame.  .  .  . 
Of  my  poor  body  I  have  given  a  member 
To  that  lost  Cause.  .  .  .  You  will  forgive  me, 

even 

If  I  do  mention  it.    But  now,  by  Heaven ! 
I  have  to  speak  of  things  which  I  remember : 
For  instance  ...  no ;  you  will  not  take  it  ill  — 
You  know  the  little  grave  there  on  the  hill  ?  — 
Her  grave,  old  boy :  you  will  remember  Nellie, — 
My  sweetheart  and  your  playmate  of  that  past 
You  hate  to  hear  of,  —  who  shall  haunt  me  till 
This  hollow  drum,  my  heart,  beats  its  reveille, 
Its  final  challenge ;  and  ?t  is  taps  at  last 
For  all  my  dreams  —  dust  on  the  whirling  blast. 

You  think  me  bitter.     But  it  7s  hard  each  day 
To  smile  and  lie  when  o'er  the  heart  the  harrow 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  211 

Of  loss  has  gone ;   it  irks  one  to  the  marrow 
When  there  is  no  one  left  to  smooth  away 
The  grief  of  old  misfortune;    or  delay 
Regret,  whose  burden  is  remembered  pain, 
And  that  despair  which  says  "  All  —  hope  —  is 

—  vain." 

If  you  were  only  human,  and  could  draw 
A  little  nearer,  I  might  tell  you  more, 
Old  dog :   but  if  you  have  a  bone  to  gnaw 
You  are  contented :  well  may  you  ignore 
Regrets  and  memories  that  naught  restore.  — 
When  dogs  remember,  now,  I  ask  you  whether 
?T  is  joy  or  grief  they  feel,  or  both  together  ?  — 
Ah,  my  old  friend,  you  sympathize,  I  know; 
I  see  it  in  your  eyes ;   whose  sadness  flatters ; 
And  till  the  news  far  as  our  village  scatters, 
There,  of  my  death,  I  hope  to  keep  you  so : 
And  while  we  have  each  other  nothing  matters. 


The  night  draws  on.    Look  how  the  gray  mist 

flies, 

Wind-hunted  of  the  Autumn  overhead  — 
Or  is  it  some  dim  army  of  the  dead 
In  wild  retreat,  filling  the  heavens  with  dread  ? 
Hark !  what  is  that  ?  a  bugle  blast  that  dies  ?  — 
Or  wild-fowl  honking  South  through  starless 

skies  ?  — 
I     read    their    message  —  winter    and     hard 

times.  .  .  . 
The  evil  genius  of  the  place  again 


212      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Plays   black   tricks   with   the   mind,    devising 

crimes : 

And  though  I  flee  it,  it  is  all  in  vain: 
Through  bush  and  briar  it  follows,  dark,  de 
riding  :  — 
"  O  fool,"  it  cries,  "  with  all  your  doubts  and 

fears, 

What !  have  you  lived  these  many  loveless  years, 
And    found    no    cure    yet    for    the    curse    of 

tears  ? "  — 
And  all  my  wounds,  with  that,  break  from  their 

hiding.  — 
(As   through    a   village,    with    vile   gibes    and 

screams, 
Scorn   taunts   a   fool   on,   wrapped   in   foolish 

dreams, 
So,  jeering,  through  the  dark  it  follows  ever. )  — 

This  will  not  do.    With  my  one  leg  we  '11  never 
Get  home  to-night.    Something  has  gone  amiss 
In  me,  I  fear,  old  dog.     I  feel  almost 
As  if  we  two  were  lost,  were  utterly  lost.  .  .  . 
We  must  get  home ;   get  home ;   where  firelight 

is  — 
Firelight  and  comfort,  that  shall  lay  this  ghost. 


THE   HOUSE   OF   NIGHT 

IT  had  been  raining  all  that  night; 
And  now  the  mists  were  everywhere: 
They  wrapped  the  house  from  roof  to  stair, 
And  glimmered  phantom  faces  white 
At  every  window:  wild  of  hair 
They  streamed  around  me  in  the  light, 
That  found  me  standing  on  the  stair. 

The  lonely  hills  were  all  around ; 
The  ancient  house  loomed  out  alone ; 
So  gray,  that  he,  who  had  not  known, 
Beholding  it  from  higher  ground, 
Had  sworn  it  was  of  mist,  not  stone; 
So  vague  it  was,  so  shadow-drowned, 
So  gray  and  still,  and  dim,  unknown. 

My  cap  and  cloak  were  beaded  gray 

With  wisps  of  rain  that  gleamed  like  sleet; 

If  anyone  had  chanced  to  meet 

My  dripping  form,  I  dare  to  say 

No  phantom  in  a  winding  sheet 

Had  filled  his  Heart  with  more  dismay, 

As  when  the  dead  and  living  meet. 

The  forest  I  had  paced  till  dawn 
Was  like  a  false  heart  filled  with  fear; 


214       THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Its  darkness  threatened  at  my  ear 
And  ever  held  a  weapon  drawn, 
Waiting  to  strike;    now  with  a  sneer 
Regarding  me;    now  urging  on 
With  menaced  murder  at  my  ear. 


It  hurled  its  roots  like  ropes  across 
My  path;    and  from  each  humpback  tree 
Spat  black  its  rain,  in  spite,  at  me; 
And  dragged  its  toad-life  from  the  moss 
To  croak  contempt  and  obloquy; 
And  now  and  then  its  limbs  it  'd  toss 
And  strike  a  serpent-fang  at  me. 

This  was  not  all :   Its  outrage  leered 
Monstrosities  in  fungoid  forms 
From  toadstool  faces:    twisted  arms 
Of  mistletoe,  that,  gesturing,  jeered: 
Its  hate  laid  nets  for  me  in  swarms 
Of  webs,  blindfolding  sight,  that  bleared 
Each  path  that  flung  out  spider  arms. 

Yet  I  had  won  through  all,  and  come 
To  this  gray  house  of  mist  at  last: 
This  ancient  manse,  with  which  was  cast 
My  lot  of  life  and  all  its  sum, 
Piled  with  the  records  of  the  past ; 
That  stared  upon  me,  dark  and  dumb, 
As  on  a  soul  of  God  outcast. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  215 

Or  as  one  gazes  on  the  dead 
Whom  he  has  Hated  for  some  sin.  — 
And  yet  I  too  must  enter  in 
This  house  that  night  inhabited, 
This  house  of  mist,  made  closest  kin 
With  all  my  dreams.  —  I  felt  no  dread, 
But  struck  the  door,  and  entered  in. 


THE   HOUSE   OF   PRIDE     , 

WEEDS  will  spring  up  around  the  place, 

And  summer  and  the  winter  rain 

Obliterate  of  it  all  trace  — 

As  in  the  order  of  the  brain 

Terror  and  loss  and  mortal  pain 

Work  madness;    and,  where  flowers  of  thought 

Once  bloomed,  all  's  wild  and  soul-distraught. 

The  dodder's  tawny  tangle  here 
Will  spread  a  strangling  web  around ; 
And  from  the  trees  the  barren  year 
Drop  bitter  fruit  upon  the  ground  — 
As  in  a  heart,  where  love  was  found, 
Hatred  takes  hold ;   and  hope,  perchance, 
Puts  on  despair's  black  countenance. 

So  be  it.    Death  shall  have  its  way 
With  all  that  makes  for  fine  and  fair.  — 
Yes;    each  grim  year,  day  after  day, 
Shall  sow  oblivion's  garden  there, 
Until  the  place  is  grown  one  stare 
Of  wilderness;    like  some  blind  face, 
In  whose  wild  look  light  has  no  place. 

Yes,  this  shall  be!     And  it  is  just, 
Since  here  a  human  heart  was  slain, 
And  love  was  sacrificed  for  lust, 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  217 

When  out  of  gold  was  forged  a  chain 
To  hold  a  soul  to  all  things  vain: 
A  woman's  soul,  a  breath  of  fire, 
Bound  will-o'-wisp-like  to  the  mire. 

Now  it  shall  burn  —  the  Godless  house ! 
The  house  of  ancient  pedigree !  — 
No  more  shall  it,  in  wild  carouse, 
Lord  it;   and  in  depravity 
Stare  down  contempt  on  misery; 
Its  insolence  and  arrogance 
Scorning  all  lesser  circumstance. 

Now  it  shall  burn !  —  A  little  while 
And  those  long  windows  blaze  with  fear, 
That  eye-like  now  on  darkness  smile, 
The  moonlight  in  them  like  a  sneer, 
That  makes  the  whole  vile  house  one  leer 
Of  lordliness,  that  soon  shall  change 
To  terror  and  know  something  strange. 

Think,  what  a  form  of  fire  shall  take 
The  midnight  with  surprise !  and  cleanse 
This  soiled  spot,  as  with  flaming  rake, 
Of  its  defilement:   fierce,  intense, 
Piling  the  refuse  heap  immense 
Of  that  which  never  stood  for  soul, 
Making  the  senses  all  its  goal. 

Yea;  let  the  flame  become  a  sword, 

To  strike  pollution  from  the  land ! 

And,  crimson-flourished,  cleave  the  horde 


218      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Of  Hell's  persistence ;  like  the  brand 
Of  God  Himself ;    and,  fiery  fanned, 
Sweep  down  the  twain  in  judgment  there, 
Catching  them  blazing  by  the  hair. 

So  it  is  written.    They  must  burn !  — 

The  bridegroom  Lust;   the  purchased  bride!  - 

So  that  my  soul  may  cease  to  yearn 

And  walk  in  darkness,  hollow-eyed.  — 

Yea,  let  it  fall,  —  this  House  of  Pride !  — 

And  flame  to  Heaven,  with  all  my  curse, 

And  all  my  love,  that  still  is  hers ! 


GUILT 

THE  fat  weeds,  rooted  in  decay, 

Make  rank  the  autumn  of  the  way: 

There  is  no  light,  except  the  glow 

Of  fox-fire  by  the  stagnant  creek, 

And  one  slim  wisp,  that,  gliding  low, 

Hangs  blue  above  the  agaric, 

That  oozes  from  the  rotting  tree, 

Where  ghost-flowers  point  pale  hands  at  me. 

The  forest  drips  and  dreams  of  death, 
That  breathes  on  me  its  weedy  breath, 
Dark  with  the  wailing  wind  and  wet: 
And  all  around  me  drops  of  rain 
Sound  weird  as  feet  of  phantoms  met 
Among  the  woods  whose  leaves  complain : 
And  evermore  some  ancient  fear, 
Wind-like,  keeps  muttering  at  my  ear. 

And  once,  as  when  one  takes  his  stand, 
The  storm  thrust  forth  a  sudden  hand 
And  struck  the  wood:  the  trees  around 
Roared  sidewise ;   and,  like  frightened  hags, 
Rent  at  their  tattered  robes;    the  ground 
Rustled  with  wildness  of  their  rags; 
And  overhead  an  owlet's  cry, 
Like  some  lost  ghost,  went  shuddering  by. 


220      THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

The  place  is  cursed  since  that  dark  day 
When  black-masked  men  came  here  to  slay: 
The  dead  walk  here  since  yonder  swung 
On  yon  bleak  tree,  that  lent  its  aid, 
An  innocent  life,  that,  wild  of  tongue, 
In  vain  to  man  and  Heaven  prayed. 
The  place  is  haunted ;   earth  and  air 
Seem  burdened  with  a  black  despair. 

I  should  have  spoken :  't  was  my  lie 
That  slew  him :    I  who  let  him  die.  — 
But  no !  —  it  was  God's  part  to  see ; 
To  give  some  sign;    to  let  men  know: 
To  point  accusingly  at  me, 
And  bid  them  see  who  struck  the  blow: 
To  bid  them  know ;  to  set  them  right  — 
Not  leave  it  all  to  me  to-night. 


THE   OLD   LOVE 

As  winds  bend  grasses  all  one  way 

And  take  the  fields  with  rout, 
Old  memories  swept  my  thoughts  one  day 

And  turned  my  life  about. 
As  roots,  through  leaves  which  drink  the  rain, 

Divine  the  broken  drought, 
My  heart  grew  conscious  through  the  brain 
Of  sorrow  gone,  joy  come  again, 

Anb  hope's  wild  banners  out. 

And  on  the  road,  the  long-lost  road, 

I  found  my  feet  once  more: 
'T  was  night ;  and  through  the  darkness  glowed 

Her  window's  starry  core. 
Again  it  thundered  in  the  hills, 

As  once  it  had.  before, 
When  from  the  rose  ran  little  rills, 
And  we  two  'mid  the  daffodils 

First  kissed  outside  her  door. 

Now  through  the  white  wrack  overhead 

The  round  moon  waded  on, 
Like  some  dim  woman,  pale  of  tread, 

Who  by  a  dream  is  drawn. 
The  night  shook  down  its  rainy  hair 

With  fireflies  jewelled  wan; 


222      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

And  through  its  fragrance,,  ever  fair, 
Again  she  ran  to  greet  me  there, 
As  if  1 7d  never  gone. 

Again  the  honeysuckle  scent 

Of  her  sweet  hair  I  breathed ; 
Again  to  mine  her  lips  were  lent, 

My  arms  about  her  wreathed: 
Again  the  night  around  us  sighed, 

And  from  its  cloud  unsheathed 
A  star,  as  there  I  opened  wide 
My  heart  to  her,  who  laughed  and  cried, 

And  love's  old  answer  breathed. 

Long  had  she  waited ;   I  delayed ; 

Until,  as  Heaven  designed, 
Immediate,  ardent,  unafraid, 

Her  memory  swept  my  mind : 
And  with  it  need  of  home  and  love, 

And  all  life  holds  in  kind 
With  man,  to  lift  the  soul  above 
The  years  and  give  hearts  hope  enough 

To  do  the  work  assigned. 


IN   LILAC   TIME 

THROUGH  orchards  of  old  apple-trees, 
That  Spring  makes  musical  with  bees ; 
By  garden  ways  of  vines  and  flowers 
Where,  twittering  sweet,  the  bird-box  towers, 

And  swallows  sun  their  plumes: 
The  path  leads  winding  to  the  gate,  — 
Hung  with  its  rusty  chain  and  weight,  — 
That  opens  on  a  lilac-walk 
Where  dreams  of  love  and  memories  talk, 

Born  of  the  dim  perfumes. 

The  old  house  stands  with  porches  wide 
And  locust-trees  on  either  side; 
Its  windows,  kindly  as  the  eyes 
Of  friendship,  smiling  at  the  skies, 

Each  side  its  open  door: 
Beside  its  steps  May-lilies  lift 
BelPd  sprays  of  snow  in  drift  on  drift; 
And  in  the  door,  a  lily  too, 
Again  she  stands,  the  one  he  knew 

In  days  that  are  no  more. 

Again  he  meets  her,  brown  of  hair, 
Among  the  clustered  lilacs  there; 
The  sun  is  set;   the  blue  dusk  falls; 
A  nesting  bird  another  calls ; 


224      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

A  star  leaps  in  the  sky: 
Again  he  breathes  the  lilac  scent 
And  rose;    again  her  head  is  bent; 
And  oh!  again,  beside  the  gate, 
To  see  the  round  moon  rise  they  wait, 

Before  they  kiss  good-bye. 

Long  years  have  passed:  the  times,  since  then, 
Have  changed:  and  customs  too  and  men: 
But  she  has  never  changed  to  him, 
Nor  has  the  house,  so  old  and  dim, 

Where  once  they  said  good-bye; 
That  place,  which  Spring  keeps  ever  fair 
Through  memories  of  her  face  and  hair  — 
Unchanged,  like  some  immortal  rhyme, 
Where  evermore  ?t  is  lilac-time, 

And  love  can  never  die. 


THE    RETURN 

THERE  was  no  element  of  grief 

In  that  old  land's  stolidity: 

ISTo  trace  of  memory,  or  relief 

For  heartbreak,  in  its  apathy: 

Rather  a  broad  complacency, 

A  satisfied,  plebeian  air, 

That  breathed  content  and  never  a  care. 

Yet  it  was  here  that  yonth  had  died 

And  love  was  buried  years  ago. 

There  was  no  hint  on  any  side 

Of  all  that  wretchedness  and  woe. 

And  I,  who  thought  some  trace  would  show 

Upon  its  face  in  sympathy, 

Read  nothing  there  of  tragedy. 

Instead,  the  birds  sang  in  the  trees: 
And  wood  and  meadow  were  a-sway 
With  gladness  of  the  bounding  breeze, 
And  wildnowers  tossing  with  the  day : 
The  very  clouds,  in  white  array, 
That  swept  their  shadows  o'er  the  sward, 
Looked  down  a  lofty  disregard. 

I  sat  me  down  upon  a  stone, 
'Beside  the  tree  where  once  I  stood 
When  love  denied  me,  and  alone 


226     THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

My  soul  groped  blindly  through  the  wood.  — 
I  sat  me  down  in  solitude 
As  once  before:    and  sad  the  years 
Assailed  my  heart  with  bitter  tears. 

The  place  was  hateful  to  me  now; 
That  place,  which  love  had  so  endeared; 
Wherein  my  soul  had  thought,  somehow, 
Its  search  would  find  what  it  had  feared 
Yet  longed  to  find :  A  record  seared 
Upon  its  face.     But  I  could  find 
Nothing  of  what  was  in  my  mind. 

And  while  I  sat  there  by  the  pine 

Two  children  passed  —  a  girl  and  boy : 

His  children ! — hers! — who  should  be  mine !  — 

I  knew  them  by  their  looks  of  joy: 

One  had  her  eyes :  without  alloy 

The  other  had  her  golden  hair.  — 

Ah  God!  it  was  too  much  to  bear! 

How  could  the  land  sit  so  serene ! 
The  heaven  above  look  such  content! 
Tempest  and  night  should  set  the  scene, 
And  in  its  midst,  made  evident, 
The  heartbreak  and  bewilderment 
Of  life;    and  the  futility 
Of  effort  and  its  agony. 

But  Nature  for  all  human  woe 
And  suffering  has  no  regard: 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  227 

She  goes  her  calm  way  here  below 
Forever  armed,  forever  barred 
Against  revealment.  —  Iron  hard.  — 
So  thought  I  as  I  turned  away.  .  .  . 
'T  was  Nature  broke  my  heart  that  day. 


THE    GRAY   GARDEN 

HEBE  in  this  room  she  used  to  sit 
Where,  by  that  window,  stands  her  chair: 
Often  her  hands  forgot  to  knit 
Intent  upon  the  garden  there. 
An  old  kind  face,  that  kept  its  youth 
As  flavor  keeps  a  winter  pear ; 
The  soul  of  Esther,  heart  of  Ruth 
Were  hers  that  helped  her  still  to  bear. 

The  garden,  whispering  through  its  flowers, 

Spoke  to  her  heart  of  many  things, 

That  helped  her  pass  the  twilight  hours 

With  old,  divine  rememberings. 

There  she  would  wander  like  a  ghost, 

Or  stand  just  where  that  white  rose  swings, 

And  listen,  for  an  hour  almost, 

How  Dusk  went  by  on  nighthawk  wings. 

]N"o  flowers  were  hers  of  gaudy  hue, 
Remindful  of  a  different  day; 
The  candytuft  and  feverfew 
Helped  her  gray  dreams  in  some  dim  way: 
Nor  was  there  any  rich  perfume, 
Scarlet  or  gold,  but  all  was  gray, 
Subdued  of  fragrance  as  of  bloom, 
That  helped  her  quiet  soul  to  pray. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  229 

The  garden  seemed  to  fill  a  need ; 

'T  was  like  an  old  acquaintanceship, 

Or  love ;  —  like  that  she  bade  "  God  speed," 

Who  raised  her  fingers  to  his  lip 

And  left,  returning  nevermore 

From  yonder  narrow,  far-off  strip 

Of  purple  sea  and  saffron  shore, 

Whence  vanished,  years  ago,  his  ship. 


WHEN  THE  YEARS  WERE  YOUNG 

THE  turtle's  egg  by  the  shallow  pool 

Whitened  a  spot  on  the  sandy  gray; 

And  there  by  the  log,  where  the  shade  greened 

cool, 
The  whippoorwill's  nest  on  the  brown  moss  lay. 

I  went  by  the  path  that  we  often  went 
When  the  years  were  young  and  our  hearts  were, 

too; 
And  the  wind,  that  was  warm  with  the  wildrose 

scent, 
Breathed  on  my  eyes  till  I  thought  it  you. 

?T  was  the  old,  wild  path  where  the  horsemint 

grows, 
And  the  milkweed's  blossom  makes  musk  the 

air; 

And  I  plucked  for  your  memory  there  a  rose, 
As  once  I  had  for  your  nut-brown  hair. 

And  I  came  to  the  bridge  that  is  built  of  logs, 
Where  the  creek  laughs  down  like  a  dimpled 

child ; 

Where  we  used  to  hark  to  the  mellow  frogs 
WTien  the  dusk  sat  dim  in  the  ferny  wild. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  231 

And  I  stood  on  the  bridge  and  I  heard  your  feet 
Tremble  its  floor  as  I  heard  them  when 
I  was  a  boy,  whom  you  ran  to  meet, 
Bare  of  foot  and  of  years  just  ten. 

The  old  log-bridge  in  the  bramble  lane, 
Where  the  black-eyed-Susans  make  bright  its 

marge ; 

Where  the  teasel's  tuft  is  a  thorny  stain, 
And  the  wild  sunflower  rays  out  its  targe. 

Where  berries  cluster  their  ripened  red, 
And,  under  the  bush,  on  the  creek's  low  bank, 
The  bob-white  huddles  an  egg-round  bed, 
The  kingfisher  flits  and  the  crane  stands  lank. 

Your  small  tanned  hand  again  was  laid 
In  the  briar-brown  clasp  of  my  freckled  own ; 
And  down  from  the  bridge  we  went  to  wade 
Where  the  turtle's  egg  by  the  water  shone. 

And  again  I  heard  the  wood-dove  coo ; 
And  the  scent  of  the  woodland  made  me  sad; 
For  the  two  reminded  my  heart  of  you, 
When  you  were  a  girl  and  I  was  a  lad. 

It  is  not  well  for  a  man  to  go 
The  old  lost  ways  that  he  went  when  young, 
When  Love  walked  with  him,  her  eyes  aglow, 
A  blue  sunbonnet  beside  her  swung. 


232   THE  POET,  THE  FOOL',  AND  THE  FAERIES 

It  is  not  well  for  woman  or  man 

To  come  again  to  the  place  they  knew 

In  the  years  that  are  gone;    where  their  love 

began, 
The  love  that  died  as  all  things  do. 

It  was  not  well  for  my  heart,  I  know, 
On  the  old  log-bridge  in  the  woodland  there : 
Your  eyes  looked  up  from  the  creek  below, 
And  in  every  zephyr  I  felt  your  hair. 

Your  face  smiled  at  me,  your  beauty  yearned 
In  every  flower,  or  song  I  heard : 
ISTo  matter  —  wherever  my  eyes  were  turned 
You  stood  remindful  with  look  and  word. 

You  laid  your  hand  on  my  heart:  your  hand, 
Once  light  as  a  wisp  and  wild  with  joy; 
And  my  heart  grew  heavy,  you  understand, 
With  the  dreams  that  died  with  the  girl  and  boy. 

It  was  not  well  for  my  heart  and  me 

On  the  old  log-bridge  in  the  woodland  glen; 

For  there  I  met  with  your  memory  — 

And  the  days  that  are  gone  come  not  again. 


THE   HILL    ROAD 

THE  old  road,  the  hill  road,  the  road  that  used 

to  go 
Through  briar  and  bloom  and  gleam  and  gloom 

among  the  wooded  ways,  — 
Oh,  would  that  we  might  follow  it  as  once  we 

did,  you  know ! 
The  old  road,  the  home  road,  the  road  of  happy 

days. 

The  old  road,  the  long  road,  the  road  among  the 
hills, 

The  hills  of  old  enchantments  and  the  hollow- 
lands  of  dreams, 

Again  it  calls  with  memories  of  days  that  noth 
ing  stills, 

And  down  the  years,  as  down  a  lane,  its  home- 
light  winks  and  gleams. 

Again  we  smell  its  dust,  the  rain  distills  into 
perfume ; 

Again  the  night,  with  fingertip  of  firefly-twin 
kling  gold, 

Points  us  the  path  to  follow  home  through  deeps 
of  dewy  bloom, 

And  on  the  bough  the  whippoorwill  is  calling  as 
of  old. 


234      THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

The  old  road,  the  lost  road,  the  road  where, 

heart  and  hand, 
Simplicity  and  innocence  of  childhood  used  to 

play, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  Ambitions  came,  loud-riding 

through  the  land, 
And  bade  us  mount  and  follow  them,  forever 

and  a  day. 


The  old  road,  the  hill  road,  the  road  we  galloped 
down, 

The  road  we  left  of  sweet  content  for  one  of 
moil  and  toil, 

The  road  we  fain  would  find  again,  and  those 
two  playmates  brown, 

Barefooted  Happiness  and  Health,  tanned  chil 
dren  of  the  soil. 


Again  I  hear  them  in  the  wind  a-calling  me  to 

come; 
From  fern  and  flower  they  nod  their  heads  or 

lift  a  faery  face ; 
And  in  the  twilight  there  they  dance  unto  the 

crickets'  thrum, 
While  friendly  voices  say  good-night  within  a 

rose-sweet  place. 

The  old  road,  the  hill  road,  the  road  that  you 
and  I 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  235 

Are  fain  to  find  and  take  again  and  once  again 

to  roam !  — 
The  road  into  the  oldtime  hills  where  we  at  last 

would  lie, 
Secure  within  our  mother's  arms  and  safe  again 

at  home. 


ROSE   AND   JASMINE 


ROSES,  in  the  garden  old, 
Glorious  with  ephemeral  gold, 
Blooming  by  the  old  stone-wall, 
Did  her  touch  give  you  your  scent  ?  - 
(Ah,  how  well  now  I  recall 
Lincoln  then  was  President) — 
As,  white-gowned,  for  mask  or  ball, 
With  her  lover  here  she  went. 
From  your  fragrant  breath,  almost, 
I  could  vow  I  see  her  ghost 
Rise,  as  when  she  stood  here  sweet 
Mid  your  blossoms :  catch  the  beat 
Of  her  happy  heart  and  feet 
As  when  here  they  came  to  meet,  — 
Lovers  young,  who  now  are  cold, 

Now  are  cold, 
Roses  in  the  garden  old. 

ii 

Jasmine,  blooming  overhead, 
Deep-embowering  porch  and  shed, 
Framing-in  one  windowsill, 
Was  it  here  on  you  she  leant  ?  — 
(I  remember  with  a  thrill 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  237 

Lincoln  then  was  President) — 
And  from  her  sad  eyes  and  still 
Did  you  learn  that  look  ?  she  sent 
Through  your  blossoms,  very  far, 
To  the  southmost  seat  of  war. 
Mid  your  branches,  starry  there, 
I  can  see  them  now,  I  swear, 
Filled  with  weeping  and  despair, 
As  when  oft  she  leaned  in  prayer 
For  her  lover,  long  since  dead, 

Long  since  dead, 
Jasmine  blooming  overhead. 


THE    CLOSE   OF   DAY 

COME  away,  for  Love  is  dead, 
And  the  hope  we  knew  is  banished ; 
Gone  the  halo  from  his  head, 
From  his  face  the  glory  vanished : 
Come  away,  for  Love  is  dead. 

Fold  the  white  hands  on  his  breast ; 
Part  the  bright  hair,  smooth  it  slowly 
Come  away,  and  let  him  rest 
In  the  place  he  long  made  holy : 
Fold  the  white  hands  on  his  breast. 

Lay  no  rose  upon  his  heart  — 
All  our  roses  too  are  perished: 
Say  no  word;    but  now  depart  — 
Nothing  ?s  left  us  here  we  cherished : 
Lay  no  rose  upon  his  heart. 

Kiss  no  more  the  locks  of  gold, 
And  the  lips  so  silent  sleeping: 
Let  no  tear  fall  as  of  old  — 
What  availeth  kiss  or  weeping! 
Kiss  no  more  the  locks  of  gold. 

Come  away,  and  hope  no  more : 
Love  is  dead  and  life  grown  lonely. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  239 

Joy  ?s  departed  at  the  door, 
Memory  remaineth  only: 
Come  away  and  hope  no  more. 

Now  befalls  the  end  of  day; 
End  of  all ;   yea,  we  must  sever : 
By  this  Cross  beside  the  way 
Kneel  and  pray,  then  part  forever: 
IsTow  befalls  the  end  of  day. 


FEUDISTS 

the  mountain  road  she  came, 
In  dingy  gown  and  heavy  shoes; 
Above  her  broke  the  redbud's  flame, 
And  oak  and  maple  flushed  with  hues ; 
And  everywhere  was  boisterous  news 
Of  Spring  who  led  o'er  hills  and  streams 
The  white  invasion  of  her  dreams. 

Upon  a  rock  beside  the  way 

She  sat,  so  still,  so  dim  of  tone  — 

Of  such  an  unobtrusive  gray  — 

You  7d  thought  her  portion  of  the  stone, 

Save  for  her  eyes,  where  fever  shone, 

Beneath  the  bonnet,  frayed  and  torn, 

And  pinned  together  with  a  thorn. 

Wrapped  in  a  faded  shawl  she  bore 

A  child,  so  tiny  and  so  wan 

One  marveled  how  a  child  so  poor, 

So  desolate  and  small  and  drawn, 

Could  live.  —  Or  had  it  died  at  dawn  ?  — 

So  heedless,  so  regardless  she 

Who  never  even  looked  to  see. 

And  all  around  her  was  carouse 

Of  buds  and  birds  and  blooms  and  bees ; 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  241 

And  Heaven,  from  under  azure  brows, 
Bent  on  the  world  a  look  of  peace : 
But  she  —  she  saw  not  one  of  these  — 
Nothing  of  Earth's  great  joy  divine, 
Or,  if  she  saw,  she  gave  no  sign. 

Her  attitude  of  mind  refused 

To  be  distracted.    Nature  glowed : 

Above  her  head  the  wild  bee  cruised : 

Leaves  whispered :  dogwood  on  her  snowed : 

The  very  tree  above  her  flowed 

With  wild-bird  music :  and  the  brook 

Kept  calling  her  to  come  and  look. 

But  she  —  she  saw  not,  neither  heard, 
Watching  the  road  in  furtive  wise.  — 
Once  only,  when  it  seemed  a  bird, 
Far-off,  called  shrilly,  in  her  eyes 
A  startled  look  came  —  fear,  surmise, 
That  raised  her  swift,  alert  and  still, 
Listening  .  .  .  for  what  upon  the  hill  ?  — 

A  shot:   wild  hoofs:   that  rapidly 
Neared  and  tore  past  her,  standing  dumb, 
Tense-drawn  in  waiting  misery, 
As  if  she  felt  Disaster  come 
Galloping,  instead  of  —  only  some 
Strange,  riderless  horse,  that  made  her  weak 
With  dread  and  mad  desire  —  to  shriek. 

Then  down  the  mountain,  grim  and  tall, 
A  man  came :  he,  her  fear  and  bliss : 


242  THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

A  rifle  on  his  arm  and  all 

Fierce  passions  in  his  face.  —  E"o  kiss 

Was  his  or  greeting :  only  this  — 

He  took  the  child,  that  wailed :  and  they 

Went  swiftly  down  the  mountain  way. 


THE   MOUND   MEN 


THEY  brought  him  back  from  the  battlefield 
On  a  bier  of  boughs  and  of  spear  and  shield, 
The  f  oeman's  flint  in  his  flesh  and  bone : 
They  brought  him  back  to  the  thud  and  drone 
Of  the  snake-skin  drum  and  the  flute  of  stone, 
And   the   medicine    dance   that    shrieked    and 
reeled. 

n 

Fierce  and  fain  he  had  led  the  fight 

From  blood-red  dawn  till  death-black  night: 

Fain  and  fierce  in  the  hollow  wood 

Where  the  eagle  circled  and  screamed  for  food, 

And  the  bison  passed  like  a  rolling  flood, 

And  the  panther  leapt  like  a  shaft  of  light. 

in 

Loud  in  a  land  of  streams  and  caves, 

Of  crags  and  woods,  where  they  found  their 

graves, 

Hate  met  hate  with  shriek  and  shout, 
And  arrows  blotted  the  daylight  out; 
Stealth  met  strength  and  rage  met  rout 
And  swept  to  death  with  a  thousand  braves. 


244     THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 


IV 


Spear  of  flint  and  arrow  and  bow 

And  axe  of  granite  gave  blow  for  blow, 

Till  there  by  the  stream,  where  the  bison  track 

Led  down  from  the  hills,  the  foe  fell  back, 

And  the  white  salt-lick  with  blood  flowed  black 

For  love  of  a  chief  a  spear  laid  low. 


As  the  red  moon  rose  like  a  banner-stone 
They  bore  him  down  from  the  hills  alone; 
As  the  red  moon  sank  like  a  battle  blade 
They  bore  him  into  the  forest  glade 
Where  the  glare  of  the  fires  made  red  the  shade, 
And  the  Mound  Men  piped  on  their  flutes  of 
bone. 

VI 

With  head  to  the  West  they  brought  him  home, 
And  built  him  a  bed  of  the  forest  loam; 
With  head  to  the  West  they  laid  him  down 
With  his  axe  on  his  breast,  like  a  great  king's 

crown ; 
And   five   of  his   men,   that  were  strong  and 

brown, 
They  chose  for  his  guard  in  the  life  to  come. 

VII 

Streaked  with  ochre  and  brave  with  beads 
Forth  they  strode  to  the  drone  of  reeds ; 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  245 

Round  his  body  they  kneeled  and  stared 
Chanting  low  while  the  priestmen  bared 
Knives  of  flint  as  they  whirled,  wild-haired; 
Danced,  loud-singing  the  dead  man's  deeds. 


VIII 

Five  of  his  braves,  who  chose  to  fare 
The  way  with  him  and  its  dangers  share : 
Five  of  his  braves !  —  and  the  flint  knives  fell, 
While  the  death-dance  wailed  with  the  medicine 

spell ; 

Five  of  his  braves,  who  would  bear  them  well 
Side  by  side  with  the  big  chief  there. 


IX 

Side  by  side,  with  their  bows  and  spears, 
To  be  his  guard  through  the  countless  years, 
They  laid  them  down  in  a  stalwart  row 
On  skins  of  the  bear  and  the  buffalo, 
Beads  and  feathers  and  paint  aglow 
And  rings  of  keel  on  their  hands  and  ears. 


For  the  Land  where  the  Hunt  should  never  cease 
They  placed  by  the  chief  his  pipe  of  peace 
And  knife  and  arrows.  .  .  .  Then  based  it  wide 
And  heaped  the  mound  that  should  hold  and 
hide 


246    THE  POET,  THE  FOOL]  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Their  chief  of  chiefs  and  his  warrior  pride 
Through  the  ceaseless  roll  of  the  centuries. 

NOTE  :  —  In  the  year  1897,  'near  Richmond,  Ky.,  a 
burial  mound  was  opened  which  contained  the  skeletons 
of  six  men  of  the  Stone  Age.  The  principal  one  was  lying 
with  head  to  the  West.  In  the  femur  of  his  left  leg, 
driven  entirely  through  the  bone,  was  a  large  flint  spear 
head.  .  .  .  About  the  bodies  were  found  many  instru 
ments  of  stone  and  clay. 


THE    SPANISH    MAIN 

IT  's,  Ho !  for  a  sail  and  a  good  stiff  breeze, 
And  a  trail  of  foam,  with  the  wind  abaft ! 
When  we  turn  our  keel  to  the  Caribbees, 
And  sweep  the  ocean  of  every  craft, 
Each  hulk  and  hull  that  the  Fiend  hath  sold, 
With  her  Spanish  hold  crammed  full  of  gold,  — 

Heave  ho !  my  bullies ! 
To  crowd  her  sail  till  she  catch  our  hail, 
A  ten-pound  shot  through  her  quarter-rail  — 
Heave  ho !  my  bullies !  and  a  heave ! 

Tattooed  and  tanned,  the  DeviPs  own  crew, 

Dutch  and  Lascar,  and  French  and  Greek, 

Of  every  Nation  and  every  hue, 

A  cutlass  scar  on  the  brow  or  cheek, 

And  hair  in  queues  of  the  murder-thumb,  — 

Made  mad  with  rum  for  the  work  to  come,  — 

Heave  ho !  my  bullies ! 

To  stake  with  a  curse  our  lives  for  a  purse, 
And  steer  for  Hell  with  a  roaring  verse,  — 
Heave  ho!  my  bullies!  and  a  heave! 

The  sun  goes  down  like  a  blot  of  blood 

As  our  boats  swarm  up  to  her  towering  hull, 

And  her  galleon  decks  with  the  battle  thud,  — 


248     THE  POET,   THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

Yo  ho !  for  the  banner  of  bones  and  skull ! 
And  the  buccaneer  crew  that  will  have  its  fill :  — 
And  it 's  "  Cut  and  kill !  "  till  the  ship  is  still,— 

Heave  ho !  my  bullies ! 

Till  pistol  and  dirk  have  done  their  pirate  work, 
And  the   last  man  yields   as  the   night  falls 

murk,  — 
Heave  ho !  my  bullies !  and  a  heave ! 

The  moon  comes  up  like  a  broad  doubloon 

As  the  last  tar  totters  along  the  plank : 

The  women  —  ho !  ho !  —  by  the  light  of  the 

moon 

We  dice  for  them  while  their  eyes  stare  blank, 
And  they  pray  to  God  who  heeds  them  not, 
While  we  share  each  lot  o?  the  loot  we  got,  — 

Heave  ho !  my  bullies ! 
Then  a  torch  to  the  hull  as  away  we  pull, 
And  a  prayer  that  the  Devil  be  bountiful,  — 
Heave  ho !  my  bullies !  and  a  heave ! 


THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  BURIED 
DEAD 

HE  heard  a  footstep  on  the  road 
Before  the  black  cock  woke  and  crew: 
It  was  the  step  of  one  he  knew, 
Of  one  who  bore  a  weary  load, 
When  the  lonely  night  was  waning. 

He  dared  not  stop  or  turn  his  head. 
He  knew  what  followed  through  the  night. 
He  knew  the  burden  was  not  light, 
The  burden  of  the  buried  dead, 

When  the  dreary  dawn  was  gaining. 

He  knew  that  his  dead  self  would  pass, 
Bowed  earthward  by  that  thing  of  fear : 
He  heard  its  footstep  very  near, 
Behind  him  in  the  withered  grass  — 
Where  the  wind  kept  on  complaining. 

But  when  the  black  cock  crew  for  dawn 
His  soul  took  heart  to  turn  and  see  — 
Empty  the  road  and  shadowy 
Stretched  far  away  with  naught  thereon  — 
And  the  wild,  gray  dawn  broke  raining. 


REFLECTIONS 

HAS  N'T  she  a  roguish  eye  ?  — 
Oh,  the  mischief  in  it !  — 
Who  'd  not  love  to  live  or  die 
In  it  every  minute  ? 

Has  n't  she  a  laughing  lip  ? 
Oh,  the  rose  that  wreathes  there !  — 
Who  'd  not  be  the  sighs  that  slip, 
Or  the  breath  that  breathes  there  ? 

Has  n't  she  a  dainty  ear  ?  — 
Oh,  the  dearness  of  it !  — 
Who  ?d  not  have  it  very  near, 
Like  the  flower  above  it? 

Has  n't  she  a  darling  foot  ?  — 
Oh,  the  way  she  trips  it !  — 
Who  'd  not  love  to  be  the  boot 
That  this  moment  clips  it  ? 

Has  n't  she  a  lissome  waist  ?  — 
Oh,  the  grace  that  molds  it !  — 
Who  'd  not  be  the  belt  that 's  placed 
Eound  it  and  that  holds  it  ? 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  251 

Oft  and  oft  she  smiles  at  me, 
Smiles  as  she  draws  nearer.  — 
How  she  loves  me !  —  But,  you  see, 
I  am  just  her  mirror. 


"OH,    WHEN   I    HEARD" 

OH,  when  I  heard  that  you  were  dead, 
Sweet  girl,  to  whom  I  gave  my  youth, 
Again  my  heart  shook  with  the  tread 
Of  love  more  strong  than  truth. 

And  if  it  had  been  otherwise  — 
Had  we  not  met  to  part  again, 
Th'  appealing  memory  of  your  eyes 
Had  not  seared  soul  and  brain. 

But  from  the  past  they  gaze  at  me, 
And  break  my  heart  with  love  denied. 
O  God,  blot  out  their  memory ! 
And  love  that  lied! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  T.  B.  A. 

THE  cavalier  cry  of  Lovelace  and  Carew 
And  Herrick's  lyric  call  together  grew, 
And  here  in  Aldrich,  —  lark  and  nightingale, — 
Made  sweet  with  song  Art's  new-world  inter 
vale. 


MODERN   POETRY 

EELUCTANT  praise  and  meagre  kindness, 
In  spite  of  all  thy  beauty,  see, 

O  Poetry, 

Th'  ignoble  World  now  gives  to  thee: 
While  Fame,  with  strange,  pretended  blindness, 
Through  whom  thou  hadst  authority 
Through  many  a  golden  century, 
Fares  on  her  way  with  other  company. 


THE   SECRET    ROOM 

THERE  is  a  room  the  soul  has  set  apart, 

Dark  in  the  House  of  Dreams  and  Melody; 

A  secret  room,  no  eye  may  ever  see, 

Hung  with  the  perished  passions  of  the  heart: 

There  once  I  entered  with  a  Dream  of  Art, 

And  sat  me  down  with  Love  and  Memory 

Before  a  harp's  decaying  ebony, 

From  whose  dim  strings,  I  felt,  old  ghosts  might 

start. 

And  suddenly,  through  some  superior  will, 
My  hand  went  forth  and,  groping  blindly,  swept 
One  chord  of  chords,  hollow  with  loss  and  fear ; 
And  all  the  darkness  shuddered  and  was  still : 
Then  in  the  silence  something  near  me  crept. 
And  on  my  hands  dropped  tear  on  terrible  tear. 


THE  WATCHER   ON  THE  TOWER 

i 

THE  VOICE  OF  A  MAN 
WHAT  of  the  Night,  O  Watcher  ? 

THE  VOICE  OF  A  WOMAN 

Yea,  what  of  it? 

THE  WATCHEK 
A  star  has  risen ;   and  a  wind  blows  strong. 

VOICE  OF  THE  MAN 
The  Night  is  dark. 

THE  WATCHER 

But  God  is  there  above  it. 

VOICE  OF  THE  WOMAN 
The  Night  is  dark ;  the  Night  is  dark  and  long. 

ii 

VOICE  OF  THE  MAN 
What  of  the  Night,  O  Watcher  ? 


CHARACTER^  AND  EPISODE  255 

VOICE  OF  THE  WOMAN 

Night  of  sorrow ! 

THE  WATCHER 
Out  of  the  East  there  comes  a  sound,  like  song. 

VOICE  OF  THE  MAN 
The  Night  is  dark. 

THE  WATCHER 
Have  courage !  There 's  To-morrow. 

VOICE  OF  THE  WOMAN 
The  Night  is  dark;  the  Night  is  dark  and  long. 

in 

VOICE  OF  THE  MAN 
What  of  the  Night,  O  Watcher  ? 

VOICE  OF  THE  WOMAN 

Is  it  other  ? 

THE  WATCHER 
I  see  a  gleam;    a  thorn  of  light;    a  thong. 

VOICE  OF  THE  MAN 
The  Night  is  dark. 


256     THE  POET,  THE  FOOL,  AND  THE  FAERIES 

THE  WATCHES 
The  Morning  conies,  my  Brother. 

VOICE  OF  THE  WOMAN 
The  Night  is  dark ;  the  Night  is  dark  and  long. 

IV 

VOICE  OF  THE  MAN 
What  now,  what  now,  O  Watcher ! 

THE  WATCHER 

Red  as  slaughter 

The  Darkness  dies.    The  Light  comes  swift  and 
strong. 

VOICE  OF  THE  MAN 

The  Night  was  long.  —  What  sayest  thou,  my 
Daughter  ? 

VOICE  OF  THE  WOMAN 

The  Night  was  dark;   the  Night  was  dark  and 
long. 


PANDORA 

THAT  's  my  Pandora :  look  you,  good  as  gold ; 

No  evil  in  her.    Yet,  as  once  of  old, 

Zeus  formed  her  namesake,  she,  in  body  and 

soul, 

Was  made  for  man's  allurement.    He  who  stole 
Fire  from  high  Heaven,  and  so  brought  on  Earth 
A  scourge  of  evils,  was  of  not  more  worth 
Than  she,  the  woman,  of  whom  we  are  told. 
Now  my  Pandora  ?s  of  the  selfsame  mold : 
A  sweet  disturbance,  filling  every  hour 
With  personality,  that  7s  kin  to  power ; 
But  still  concealing  her  immortal  dower 
Of  love,  like  her,  whom  Epimetheus 
Gave  heart  and  soul  to.  —  But  I  like  her  thus : 
A  woman  through  and  through,  with  all  the  fuss 
And  fervor  and  nice  curiosity 
In  all  that  we  name  life,  whate'er  it  be, 
Though  at  the  last  it  may  end  evilly. 
But  could  it  end  so  ?  when,  within  her  mind, 
Like  Hope  shut  in  the  casket,  you  will  find, 
Mid  doubts,  she  keeps  her  faith  in  humankind. 
Now  looking  at  her  there  you  'd  never  know 
The  fire  of  the  faith  which  burns  below  — 
That  ?s    my    Pandora !  —  her    chaste    bosom's 

snow. 


ATTAINMENT 

ON  the  Heights  of  Great  Endeavor,  - 
Where  Attainment  looms  forever,  — 
Toiling  upward,  ceasing  never, 
Climb  the  fateful  Centuries: 
Up  the  difficult,  dark  places, 
Joy  and  anguish  in  their  faces, 
On  they  strive,  the  living  races, 
And  the  dead,  that  no  one  sees. 

Shape  by  shape,  with  brow  uplifted, 
One  by  one,  where  night  is  rifted, 
Pass  the  victors,  many  gifted, 
Where  the  heaven  opens  wide : 
While  below  them,  fallen  or  seated, 
Mummy-like,  or  shadow-sheeted, 
Stretch  the  lines  of  the  defeated,  — 
Scattered  on  the  mountainside. 

And  each  victor,  passing  wanly, 
Gazes  on  that  Presence  lonely, 
With  unmoving  eyes  where  only 
Grow  the  dreams  for  which  men  die: 
Grow  the  dreams,  the  far,  ethereal, 
That  on  earth  assume  material 
Attributes,  and,  vast,  imperial, 
Rear  their  battlements  on  high. 


CHARACTER  AND  EPISODE  259 

Kingdoms,  marble-templed,  towered, 
Where  the  Arts,  the  many-dowered,  — 
That  for  centuries  have  flowered, 
Trampled  under  War's  wild  heel,  — 
Lift  immortal  heads  and  golden, 
Blossoms  of  the  times  called  olden, 
Soul-alluring,  earth-withholden, 
Universal  in  appeal. 

As  they  enter,  —  high  and  lowly,  — 
On  the  hush  these  words  fall  slowly :  — • 
"  Ye  who  kept  your  purpose  holy, 
Never  dreamed  your  cause  was  vain, 
Look !  —  Behold,  through  time  abating, 
How  the  long,  sad  days  of  waiting, 
Striving,  starving,  hoping,  hating, 
Helped  your  spirit  to  attain. 

"  For  to  all  who  dream,  aspire, 
Marry  effort  to  desire, 
On  the  cosmic  heights,  in  fire 
Beaconing,  my  form  appears :  — 
I  am  marvel,  I  am  morning! 
Beauty  in  man's  heart  and  warning !  — 
On  my  face  none  looks  with  scorning, 
And  no  soul  attains  who  fears." 


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i    1          V 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


The  poetl    trie  rooi  am 
the   faeriep 

p 

jt  "« 

H  29    '»;, 

3 


"!L  23I927 
JAN  26  193 


.   LIBRARY 


